Dick Merriwell’s Aëro Dash




CONTENTS

  Chapter                               Page

       I.  The Catastrophe                 5

      II.  The Coward                     12

     III.  A Scrap of Paper               25

      IV.  Stovebridge Finds an Ally      35

       V.  The Struggle in the Dark       54

      VI.  Dick Merriwell Wins            66

     VII.  The Brand of Fear              75

    VIII.  The Young Man in Trouble       83

      IX.  A Disgruntled Pitcher          89

       X.  In Dolan’s Café               106

      XI.  The Explosion                 121

     XII.  The Game Begins               135

    XIII.  Against Heavy Odds            147

     XIV.  Three Men of Millions         159

      XV.  The Mysterious Mr. Randolph   173

     XVI.  The Mysterious House          183

    XVII.  In the Shadow of the Cliffs   195

   XVIII.  Bert Holton, Special Officer  209

     XIX.  The Race in the Clouds        222

      XX.  The Outlaws                   235

     XXI.  Dick Merriwell’s Fist         247

    XXII.  All Arranged                  254

   XXIII.  Chester Arlington’s Mother    260

    XXIV.  Two Indian Friends            267

     XXV.  The Man in the Next Room      277

    XXVI.  When Greek Meets Greek        282

   XXVII.  Shangowah’s Backers           290

  XXVIII.  Batted Out                    295

    XXIX.  The Finish                    303




  Dick Merriwell’s Aëro Dash
  OR
  WINNING ABOVE THE CLOUDS


  By
  BURT L. STANDISH

  Author of the famous Merriwell stories.

  [Illustration]


  STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
  PUBLISHERS
  79–89 Seventh Avenue, New York




  Copyright, 1910
  By STREET & SMITH

  Dick Merriwell’s Aëro Dash


  All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
  languages, including the Scandinavian.

  Printed in the U. S. A.




DICK MERRIWELL’S AËRO DASH.

CHAPTER I.

THE CATASTROPHE.


A glorious midsummer morning, clear, balmy and bracing. An ideal
stretch of macadam, level as a floor and straight as a die for close
onto two miles, with interminable fields of waving wheat on either
side. A new, high-power car in perfect running order.

It was a temptation for speeding which few could resist, certainly not
Brose Stovebridge, who was little given to thinking of the consequences
when his own pleasure was concerned, and who had a reputation for
reckless driving which was exceeded by none.

With a shout of joy, he snatched off his cap and flung it on the
seat beside him. The next instant he had opened the throttle wide
and advanced the spark to the last notch. The racing roadster leaped
forward like a thing alive and shot down the stretch--cut-out wide open
and pistons throbbing in perfect unison--a blurred streak of red amidst
a swirling cloud of dust.

Stovebridge bent over the wheel, his eyes shining with excitement and
his curly, blond hair tossed by the cutting wind into a disordered mass
above his rather handsome face. The speedometer hand was close to the
fifty mark.

“You’ll do, you beauty,” he muttered exultingly. “I could squeeze
another ten out of you, if I had the chance.”

The horn shrieked a warning as he pulled her down to take the curve
ahead, but her momentum was so great that she shot around the wide
swerve almost on two wheels, with scarcely any perceptible slackening.

The next instant Stovebridge gave a gasping cry of horror.

Directly in the middle of the road stood a little girl. Her eyes were
wide and staring, and she seemed absolutely petrified with fright.

The car swerved suddenly to one side, there was a grinding jar of the
emergency and the white, stricken face vanished. With a sickening jolt,
the roadster rolled on a short distance and stopped.

For a second or two Stovebridge sat absolutely still, his hands
trembling, his face the color of chalk. Then he turned, as though with
a great effort, and looked back.

The child lay silent, a crumpled, dust-covered heap. The white face
was stained with blood, one tiny hand still clutched a bunch of wild
flowers.

The man in the car gave a shuddering groan.

“I’ve killed her!” he gasped. “My God, I’ve killed her!”

He would be arrested--convicted--imprisoned. At the thought every bit
of manhood left him and fear struck him to the soul. He knew that every
law, human or divine, bound him to pick up the child and hurry her
to a doctor, for there might still be a spark of life which could be
fanned into flame. But he was lost to all sense of humanity, decency,
or honor. Maddened by the fear of consequences, his one impulse was to
fly--fly quickly before he was discovered.

In a panic he threw off the brakes, started the car and ran through his
gears into direct drive with frantic haste. The car leaped forward,
and, without a backward glance at the victim of his carelessness,
Stovebridge opened her up wide and disappeared down the road in a
cloud of dust.

The child lay still where she had fallen. Slowly the dust settled and a
gentle breeze stirred the flaxen hair above her blood-stained face.

Then came the throbbing of another motor approaching, a deep-toned horn
sounded, and a big, red touring car, containing four young fellows,
rounded the bend at a fair speed.

Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale athlete, was at the wheel, and,
catching sight of the little heap in the roadway, he stopped the car
with a jerk and sprang out.

As he ran forward and gathered the limp form into his arms, he gave an
exclamation of pity. Then his face darkened.

“By heavens!” he cried. “I’d like to get my hands on the man who did
this. Poor little kid! Just look at her face, Brad.”

As Brad Buckhart, Dick’s Texas chum, caught sight of the great gash
over the child’s temple, his eyes flashed and he clenched his fists.

“The coyote!” he exploded. “He certain ought to have a hemp necktie put
around his neck with the other end over a limb. I’d sure like to have a
hold of that other end. You hear me talk!”

Squeezing past the portly form of Bouncer Bigelow, Tommy Tucker leaned
excitedly out of the tonneau.

“Is she dead, Dick?” he asked anxiously.

Merriwell took his fingers from the small wrist he had been feeling.

“Not quite,” he said shortly. “But it’s no thanks to the scoundrel who
ran her down and left her here.”

His eyes, which had been looking keenly to right and left, lit up as
they fell upon the roof of a farm house nestling among some trees a
little way back from the road.

“There’s a house, Brad,” he said in a relieved tone. “Even if she
doesn’t belong there, they’ll make her comfortable and send for a
doctor.”

With infinite tenderness he carried the child down the road a little
way to a gate, and thence up a narrow walk bordered with lilac bushes.
The door of the farm house was open and, without hesitation, he walked
into the kitchen, where a woman stood ironing.

“I found----” he began.

The woman turned swiftly, and as she saw his burden, her face grew
ghastly white and her hands flew to her heart.

“Amy!” she gasped in a choking voice. “Is--she----”

“She’s not dead,” Dick reassured her, “but I’m afraid she’s badly hurt.
I picked her up in the road outside. Some one in a car had run over her
and left her there.”

For an instant he thought the woman was going to faint. Then she pulled
herself together with a tremendous effort.

“Give her to me!” she cried fiercely, her arms outstretched. “Give her
to me!”

Her eyes were blinded with a sudden rush of tears.

“Little Amy, that never did a bit o’ harm to nobody,” she sobbed. “Oh,
it’s too much!”

“Careful, now,” Merriwell cautioned. “Take her gently. I’m afraid her
arm is broken.”

“Would you teach a woman to be gentle to her child?” she cried wildly.

Without waiting for a reply, she gathered the little form tenderly into
her arms and laid her down on a sofa which stood at one side of the
room. Then running to the sink for some water, she wet her handkerchief
and began to wipe off the child’s face.

“You mustn’t mind what I said,” she faltered the next moment. “I didn’t
mean it. I’m just wild.”

“I know,” Dick returned gently. “A doctor should be called at----”

“Of course!”

She sprang to her feet and flew into another room, whence Dick heard
the insistent ringing of a telephone bell, followed quickly by rapid,
broken sentences. As the handkerchief fell from her hand he had picked
it up and was sprinkling the child’s face with water.

Presently the girl gave a little moan and opened her eyes.

“Mamma,” she said faintly--“mamma!”

The woman ran into the room at the sound.

“Here I am, darling,” she said, as she knelt down by the couch. “Where
do you feel bad, Amy dear?”

“My arm,” the child moaned, “and my head. A big red car runned right
over me.”

“Red!” muttered Merriwell, his eyes brightening.

“My precious!” soothed the mother. “The doctor’ll be here right off.
Does it hurt much?”

The child closed her eyes and slow tears welled from under the lashes.

“Yes,” she sobbed, “awful.”

Dick ground his teeth.

“It’s a crime for such men to be allowed on the road,” he said in a
low, tense tone. “I’m going to do my level best to run down whoever was
responsible for this, and if I do, they’ll suffer the maximum penalty.”

“I hope you do,” the woman declared fiercely. “Hanging’s too good for
’em! My husband, George Hanlon, ain’t the man to sit still an’ do
nothing, neither.”

“They--wasn’t--men,” sobbed the child. “Only one.”

“One man in a red car of some sort,” Dick murmured thoughtfully. “He
must belong around here; a fellow wouldn’t be touring alone.”

Then he turned to Mrs. Hanlon.

“I think I’ll be getting on,” he said quickly. “I can’t do anything
here, and the longer I delay the less chance there’ll be of catching
this fellow. I’ll call you up to-night and find out how the little girl
is doing.”

“God bless you for what you’ve done,” the woman said brokenly.

“I wish it might have been more,” Dick answered as he walked quickly
toward the door. “Good-by.”

As he hurried out he almost ran into a slim young fellow, who was
running up the walk. He was bare-headed, and his long black hair
straggled down over a pair of fierce black eyes that had a touch of
wildness in them.

Catching sight of Dick he glared at the Yale man, and hesitated for an
instant as if he meant to stop him. Then, with a curious motion of his
hands, he brushed past Merriwell and disappeared into the house.

“I’ve found a clue, pard,” Buckhart announced triumphantly, as Dick
reached the car.

“What is it?”

The Texan held up a cloth cap.

“Picked it up by the side of the road,” he explained. “Find the owner
of that and you’ll sure have the onery varmit who did this trick. You
hear me gently warble!”

Dick took it in his hand and turned it over. The stuff was a small
black and white check and was lined with gray satin. Stamped in the
middle of the lining was the name of the dealer who had sold it:

  “Jennings, Haberdasher,
          Wilton.”

Wilton was a good-sized town they had passed through about four miles
back.

“I thought he belonged around here,” Merriwell said as he rolled up the
cap and stuffed it into his pocket. “Look out for a fellow without a
hat, alone, in a red car of some sort, Brad. That’s all we’ve got to go
by at present, but I shouldn’t wonder if it would be enough.”

He stepped into the car and started the engine, Brad sprang up beside
him and they were off.

They had not gone a hundred feet when the black haired youth rushed out
of the gate to the middle of the road. His eyes flashed fire, and as he
saw the car moving rapidly away from him his mouth moved and twisted
convulsively as if he wanted to shout, but could not.

Then, as the touring car disappeared around a turn in the road, he
clenched one fist and shook it fiercely in that direction. The next
moment he was following it as hard as he could run.




CHAPTER II.

THE COWARD.


With pallid face and nervous, twitching fingers, which his desperate
grip on the wheel scarcely served to hide, Brose Stovebridge flew along
the high road between Wilton and the Clover Country Club.

Now and then he looked back fearfully; at every crossroad his eyes
darted keenly to right and left, as he let out the car to the very
highest speed he dared, hoping and praying that he might reach his goal
without encountering any one.

All the time fear--deadly, unreasoning, ignoble fear--was tugging at
his heart-strings.

He had gone through just such an experience as this little more than
a year ago in Kansas City. How vividly it all came back to him! The
unexpected meeting with two old school chums whom he had not seen
in months; their hilarious progress of celebration from one café to
another, which ended, long past midnight, in that wild joy ride through
the silent, deserted streets.

He shuddered. He thought he had succeeded in thrusting from his mind
the details of it all: The sudden skidding around a corner on two
wheels; the man’s face that flashed before them in the electric light,
dazed--white--terrified. The thud--the fall--the sickening jolt, as
the wheels went over him. Then that wild, unreasoning, terror-stricken
impulse to fly, to escape the consequences at any cost, which possessed
him. He gave no thought to his unconscious victim. He only wanted to
get away before any one came, and somehow he had done so.

A few days later, in the safe seclusion of his home near Wilton, when
he read that the fellow had succumbed to his injuries in the Kansas
City hospital, his first thought was one of self-congratulation at his
own cleverness in eluding pursuit.

His two chums he had never seen since that morning. Only a few weeks
ago one of them had declined an invitation to visit him. He wondered
why.

Once in his prep school days, when the dormitory caught fire, he had
stumbled blindly down the fire escape and left his roommate sleeping
heavily. Luckily the boy was roused in time; but it was no thanks to
Brose that he escaped with his life.

For Stovebridge was a coward. In spite of his handsome face and dashing
manner; in spite of his popularity, his athletic prowess, his many
friends--in spite of all, he was a moral coward.

Few suspected it and still fewer knew, for the fellow was constantly on
his guard and clever at hiding this unpleasant trait. But it was there
just the same, ready to leap forth in a twinkling, as it had done this
morning, and stamp his face with the brand of fear.

As the great, granite gateposts of the club appeared in sight,
Stovebridge breathed a sigh of relief. By some extraordinary luck he
had encountered no one on his wild ride thither. He had passed several
crossroads, any one of which he was prepared to swear he had come by,
and for the present he was safe.

Slowing down, he turned into the drive, and as he did so he took out
a handkerchief and passed it over his moist forehead. He must compose
himself before encountering any of his fellow members.

He carefully smoothed his ruffled hair with slim, brown fingers, and
reached over for his cap.

The seat was empty. The cap had disappeared.

The discovery was like a physical blow, and for an instant his heart
stood still.

Where had he lost it?

The spot where he had run down the child was the only feasible one. The
cap must have fallen out when he put on the emergency, and probably lay
in plain sight, a clue for the first passerby to pick up.

For a moment he had a wild idea of going back for it, but he thrust
this from him instantly. It was impossible.

Then the clubhouse came in sight. He must pull himself together at
once; he would get something to steady his nerves before he met any one.

Instead of continuing on to the front of the clubhouse, where a crowd
was congregated on the wide veranda, he turned sharply to the right and
drove his car into one of the open sheds back of the kitchen. Then he
dived through a side door into the buffet.

“Whisky, Joe,” he said nervously to the attendant.

A bottle, glass and siphon were placed before him, and even the
taciturn Joe was somewhat astonished at the size of the drink which
Stovebridge poured with shaking hand and drained at a swallow.

He followed it with a little seltzer and, pouring out another three
fingers, sat back in his chair and took out a gold cigarette case.

As he selected a cigarette with some care, and held it to the cigar
lighter on the table, he noticed with satisfaction that his fingers
scarcely trembled at all.

“That’s the stuff to steady a fellow’s nerves,” he muttered, blowing
out a cloud of blue smoke. “There’s nothing like it.”

He took a swallow and then drained the glass for the second time.

Presently his view of life became slightly more optimistic.

“It was a new cap,” he remembered with a sudden feeling of relief.

“I’ve never worn it here, and there’s an old one in my locker. All
I’ve got to do is to swear I never saw it before if I’m asked about
it--which isn’t likely.”

When the cigarette was finished he went into the dressing room and took
a thorough wash. There was no one there but the valet, who gave his
clothes a good brushing, so he had no trouble in getting the old cap
out of his locker and placing it at a becoming angle on his freshly
brushed hair. Then he strolled out onto the veranda.

Three or four fellows, lounging near the door, greeted him jovially as
he appeared.

“Rather late, aren’t you, Brose?” one of them remarked, as he joined
them.

“A little,” Stovebridge returned nonchalantly. “It was such a bully
morning I took a spin along the river road.”

“Alone?” the other asked slyly.

Stovebridge laughed.

“Well, I happened to be--this time,” he answered, a little
self-consciously.

Being very much of a lady’s man, it was rare for him to be
unaccompanied.

“How I do love a hog!” drawled one of the fellows who had not spoken.
“Why the deuce didn’t you ’phone me? I’ve been sitting here bored to
death for two solid hours.”

Stovebridge was looking curiously at a big, red touring car which had
just driven up to the entrance.

“Er--I beg pardon, Marston,” he stammered. “What did you say?”

“Really not worth repeating,” returned the other languidly. “You seem
to have something on your mind, Brose.”

Stovebridge gave a slight start as he turned back to his friends.

“I was wondering who those fellows are that just drove up,” he said
carelessly. “They’re talking to old Clingwood.”

Fred Marston turned with an effort and surveyed the newcomers.

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” he drawled sinking back in his chair. “Never
saw them before.”

For some reason the strangers seemed to interest Stovebridge extremely,
and he continued to watch them furtively. There were four of them. The
one who had driven the car, and with whom Roger Clingwood was doing the
most talking, was tall and handsome, with dark hair and eyes, and the
figure of an athlete. The fellow who stood near him was good-looking,
too, and much more heavily built. Behind them, a short, wiry youth was
talking to a tremendously stout fellow with a fat, good-humored face.

Presently Stovebridge left his friends and wandered along the veranda,
pausing now and then to exchange a remark with some acquaintance, and
before long he had reached the vicinity of the strangers, where he
leaned carelessly against a pillar and looked out across the golf links.

“Very glad you could get here this morning, Merriwell,” Roger
Clingwood, an old Yale graduate was saying. “You’ll be able to look
around a bit before the race this afternoon.”

“Merriwell!” exclaimed Stovebridge under his breath. “I wonder if that
can be Dick Merriwell, of Yale.”

Suddenly a hand struck him on the shoulder and a voice exclaimed
heartily:

“Hello, Brose, old boy! Wearing your old brown cap, I see. What’s the
matter with the one you got at the governor’s shop yesterday?”

Stovebridge wheeled around with a sudden tightening of his throat
and saw the grinning face of Bob Jennings, son of the haberdasher at
Wilton, who had been in the store when he bought that wretched cap the
day before. Here was the first complication.

Stovebridge forced himself to smile.

“Left it at home, Bob,” he returned carelessly. “This was the first one
I picked up as I came out this morning.”

In the pause which followed Roger Clingwood stepped forward.

“I didn’t notice you were here, Stovebridge,” he said pleasantly. “I’d
like you to meet my friend Merriwell, who has come up with some of his
classmates to spend a day or two at the club.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” Stovebridge said with an air of good fellowship.
“I know Mr. Merriwell very well by reputation, but have never had the
pleasure of meeting him.”

“Dick, this is Brose Stovebridge,” Clingwood went on. “We claim for
him--and I think justly--the title of champion sprinter of the middle
West.”

Merriwell smiled as he held out his hand.

“Very glad indeed to meet you, Mr. Stovebridge,” he said heartily.

Stovebridge gave a sudden gasp and faltered; then he took the proffered
hand limply.

“Glad to meet you,” he said hoarsely.

Instead of meeting Merriwell’s glance, his eyes were fixed intently on
the corner of a checked cap which protruded from the Yale man’s pocket.

It was the cap he had lost out of the car that morning, or one exactly
like it. Apparently it did not belong to Merriwell, who held his own in
his left hand. Where had he picked it up? Where could he have found it
but in that fatal spot? Stovebridge’s brain reeled and he felt a little
faint. Then he realized that Clingwood was speaking to him--introducing
the other Yale men--and with a tremendous effort he forced himself to
turn and greet them with apparent calmness.

For a time there was a confused medley of talk and laughter as some
of the other members strolled up and were presented to the strangers.
Stovebridge was very thankful for the chance it gave him to pull
himself together and hide his emotion.

Presently there was a momentary lull and Dick pulled the cap out of his
pocket.

“Does this belong to any of your fellows?” he asked carelessly. “We
picked it up in the road this morning.”

Bob Jennings pounced on it.

“Why, that looks like yours, Brose,” he said as he turned it over.

Stovebridge glanced at it indifferently. He had himself well in hand
now.

“Rather like,” he drawled; “but mine is a little larger check; besides,
I didn’t wear it this morning, you know.”

“I could have sworn that you bought one exactly like this,” Jennings
said in a puzzled tone.

Stovebridge laughed.

“I wouldn’t advise you to put any money on it, Bob, because you’d
lose,” he said lightly. “I’ll wear mine to-morrow, and you’ll see the
difference.”

“Where did you find it, Dick?” Roger Clingwood asked.

Merriwell paused and glanced quietly around the circle of men. Most of
them looked indifferent, as though they had very little interest in the
cap or its unknown owner.

“It was picked up in the road about four miles this side of Wilton,”
he said in a low, clear voice. “It lay near the body of a little girl
who had been run over by some car and left there to die.”

There was a sudden, surprised hush, and then a perfect volley of
questions were flung at the Yale man.

“Where was it?”

“Who was she?”

“Didn’t any one see it done?”

“Is she dead?”

The expression of languid indifference vanished from their faces with
the rapidity and completeness of chalk under a wet sponge. Their eyes
were full of eager interest, and, as soon as the clamor was quelled,
Dick told the story with a brief eloquence which made more than one man
curse fiercely and blink his eyes.

Once or twice the Yale man darted a keen glance at Stovebridge, but
the latter had turned away so that only a small portion of his face
was visible. He seemed to be one of the few to remain unmoved by the
recital.

Another was his friend Fred Marston, a man of about thirty, with thin,
dark hair plastered over a low forehead, sensuous lips, and that
unwholesome flabbiness of figure which is always a sign of a life
devoted wholly to ease.

As Dick finished the story, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very likely she ran out in front of the car, and was bowled over
before the fellow had time to stop,” he drawled. “Children are always
doing things like that. Sometimes I believe they do it on purpose.”

Merriwell looked at him fixedly.

“That’s quite possible,” he said quietly, but with a certain
challenging note in his voice. “But no one but a coward--a contemptible
coward--would have run off and left her there.”

Marston flushed a little and started to reply, but before he could
utter a word, a number of the club members began to voice their
opinions, and for a time the talk ran fast and furious.

Merriwell noticed that Stovebridge took no part in it. He stood leaning
against a pillar, his hands in his pockets, apparently absorbed in
watching a putting match which was going on at a green just across the
drive.

Presently the Yale man strolled over to his side.

“Nice links you have here,” he commented.

Stovebridge nodded silently without taking his eyes from the players.

“You have a car, haven’t you,” Dick went on casually.

The other’s shoulders moved a little.

“Yes,” he answered. “Racing roadster--sixty horse-power.”

There was a curious glitter in Dick Merriwell’s dark eyes.

“Dark red, isn’t she?” he queried.

Stovebridge hesitated for an instant.

“Ye-s.”

The players had finished their game and were coming slowly toward
the clubhouse, but Stovebridge’s eyes never left the vivid patch of
close-cropped turf.

He was afraid to look up, afraid to meet the glance of the man beside
him. He dreaded the sound of the other’s low, clear voice. Why was he
asking these questions? Why, indeed, unless he suspected?

“You didn’t happen to run over the main road from Wilton this morning,
I suppose?”

The guilty man could not suppress a slight start. It had come, then.
Merriwell did suspect him. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth
and for a moment he was speechless. He moistened his dry lips.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I came--by the river road.”

What was the matter with him? That did not sound like his voice. It
was not the way an innocent man would have answered an unmistakable
innuendo. If he did not pull himself together instantly he would be
lost.

The next moment he turned on the Yale man.

“Why do you ask that?” he said almost fiercely. “What do you mean by
such a question?”

His face was calm, though a little pale. His long lashes drooped
purposely over the blue eyes to hide the fear which filled them.

Merriwell looked at him keenly.

“I thought perhaps we could fix the time of the accident, if you had
gone over the road before me,” he said quietly. “But I see we cannot.”

He turned away, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, and joined the
others.

Brose Stovebridge gave a shiver as he saw him go. He had the desperate
feeling of going to pieces; unless he could steady his nerves he felt
that in a very few minutes he would give himself away.

Without a word to any one, he slipped through the big reception hall
of the clubhouse and thence to the buffet. Here he tossed off another
drink and then hurried out the side door.

The attendant looked after him with a shake of his head.

“He’s got something on his mind, he has,” he muttered. “Never knew him
to take so much of a morning--and the very day he’s going to run, too.”

Stovebridge walked over to the automobile sheds. He was not likely to
be disturbed there, and if some one did come around he could pretend to
be fussing with his car.

He scarcely noticed Merriwell’s touring car, which had been put into
the shed next to his own. At another time he would have examined it
with interest, for he was a regular motor fiend. But now he passed it
with a glance, and going up to his own car, lifted up the hood and
leaned over the cylinders.

He had not been there more than a minute or two when he felt a hand
grasp his shoulder firmly.

With a snarl of terror, he straightened up and whirled around.

He had expected to find Merriwell, come to accuse him. Instead, he
saw before him Jim Hanlon, a deaf mute, who occasionally did odd jobs
around the club. The fellow’s face was distorted with rage, his eyes
flashed fire, his slight frame fairly quivered with emotion.

Stovebridge stepped back instinctively.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked harshly. “What are you doing
here?”

As the clubman spoke the deaf mute’s eyes were fixed upon his lips.
Evidently he understood what the other said, for his own mouth writhed
and twisted in his desperate, futile efforts to give voice to his
emotion.

The next instant he snatched a scrap of soiled brown paper from his
pocket and produced the stub of a pencil.

Stovebridge watched him with a vague uneasiness as he scrawled a few
words and then thrust the paper into the clubman’s hand.

“Somebudy run over Amy an kill her.”

As he deciphered the illiterate sentence, Stovebridge shivered. Until
that moment he had forgotten that this fellow was the child’s brother.
What was he about to do? He looked as though he were capable of
anything. Above all, how much did he know?

Looking up, Brose met the fellow’s eyes fixed fiercely on his own. He
shivered again.

“Yes,” he said, with an effort at calmness. “I heard about it. It’s too
bad.”

As the words left his lips he realized their utter inadequacy.

With a scowl, Hanlon snatched the paper from his hands and wrote again.

“I’ll kill the man that did it--kill him!”

The word kill was heavily underlined in a pitiful attempt at emphasis.

As Stovebridge read the short line he felt a cold chill going down his
back. He had not the slightest doubt that the fellow meant what he had
written. But how had he found out? Who had told him? Was it possible
that he could have witnessed the accident from some place out of sight?

He shot another glance at Hanlon and met the same malignant glare of
hate. The fellow looked positively murderous.

The next moment the deaf mute had pulled a long, keen knife out of his
pocket, which he held up before Stovebridge’s terror-stricken eyes and
shook it significantly. At the same time he nodded his head fiercely.

Brose gave a low gasp as he gazed at the wicked blade with fascinated
horror. Why had he ever come out here alone and given the fellow this
chance? Why hadn’t he stayed with the others? No matter what else
might have happened, he would have been safe. Arrest, conviction,
disgrace--anything would have been better than this.

Overcome by a momentary faintness, he closed his eyes.

Suddenly the paper was twitched from his fingers, and, with a
frightened gasp, he looked up.

The knife had disappeared and Hanlon was writing, again.

Desperately, as a drowning man clutches a straw, Stovebridge snatched
at the paper.

“What’s the name of the feller that came with three others in that car.”

Puzzled, the clubman looked at Hanlon and found him pointing at Dick
Merriwell’s touring car. What did he mean? What could he want with
Merriwell? Was it possible that he did not really know--that he wanted
to get proof from the Yale man before proceeding with his murderous
attack?

“Why do you want to know?” he faltered.

The other seized the paper from the man’s trembling fingers, wrote
three words and thrust it back.

“He killed Amy.”

As Stovebridge read the short sentence, he could have shouted with
joy. Hanlon did not know the truth, after all. For some unaccountable
reason he suspected Merriwell. Perhaps it was because the Yale man had
carried the child into the house; anyhow it did not matter, so long as
he himself was safe.

Then another thought flashed into his mind. The fellow suspected
Merriwell--not only suspected, but was convinced. He would try to kill
the Yale man, and perhaps succeed. Well, what of that? With Merriwell
out of the way Stovebridge would be safe--quite safe. No one else had
the slightest suspicion.

He took the pencil out of the deaf mute’s hand, and, after a moment’s
hesitation wrote, on the bottom of the paper:

“His name is Dick Merriwell.”

Somehow, as he handed the paper to the wild-eyed youth, he had the odd
feeling that he had signed a death warrant.




CHAPTER III.

A SCRAP OF PAPER.


The Clover Country Club had acquired a wider reputation than is usual
with an organization of that description.

Intended originally as a simple athletic club, with out-of-door sports
and games the special features, it had one of the finest golf links
in the Middle West. Its tennis courts were unsurpassed, its running
track unrivaled. There was a well-laid-out diamond which had been the
scene of many a hot game of baseball, and which was used in the fall
for football. Indoors were bowling alleys, billiard, and pool tables, a
beautiful swimming tank in a well-equipped gymnasium.

But in the course of time other and less desirable features had been
added. The younger set had developed into a rather fast, sporting
crowd, and, slowly increasing in numbers and in power, they gradually
crowded the old conservatives to the wall, until finally they
controlled the management.

To-day the club was better known for the completeness of its buffet,
than for the gymnasium; and it was a well-known fact that frequently
more money changed hands in the so-called private card room in a single
night than in the old days had been won or lost on sporting bets in the
course of an entire season.

In spite of all this, however, out-of-door sports were still a feature,
and now and then, when some especially well-known athletes were at the
club, matches and contests of various kinds were arranged.

That very afternoon a mile race had been planned between Stovebridge
and Charlie Layton--a Columbia graduate reported to have beaten
everything in his class from Chicago to Omaha--who was coming on from
the latter city especially for the occasion.

Fred Marston and others of his ilk usually did a great deal of sneering
at such affairs, calling them farcical relics of barbarism, and made
it plain that they only attended for the excitement of betting on the
result; but this made little difference in the general enthusiasm.

For a time after the departure of Stovebridge the discussion of
Merriwell’s story continued with some warmth, and many were the
speculations as to the identity of the brute who had run over the child
and left her there. But even that topic could not hold the interest
of such a crowd of men for very long, and presently they began to
disperse, some seeking the card room, others the buffet, while the
remainder found comfortable seats on the veranda to put in the hour
before luncheon in indolent lounging and small talk.

Roger Clingwood hesitated an instant before the wide doors of the
reception hall.

“It’s too late for golf or tennis,” he said regretfully. “Is there
anything else you would like to do before lunch? Er--cards, perhaps,
or----”

He was one of the older members who had fought vigorously, but in vain,
against the introduction of gambling in the club; but his innate sense
of hospitality made him suggest the only form of amusement possible in
the short time.

Dick smiled.

“Not for me, thank you,” he said quickly. “It always seems a waste of
time to sit around a table in a stuffy room when you might be doing
something interesting outside.”

Clingwood’s face brightened.

“I’m glad of that,” he said warmly. “I enjoy a good rubber as well as
the next man, but I don’t like the kind of play that goes on here. How
do your friends feel about it?”

He looked inquiringly at the others.

“Nix,” Buckhart said decidedly. “Not for me.”

Tucker and Bigelow both shook their heads.

“I used to flip the pasteboards in my younger days,” the former
grinned; “but I’ve reformed.”

“Why not just sit here and do nothing?” Merriwell asked. “I feel that
I’d enjoy an hour’s loaf.”

Bigelow evidently agreed with him, for he sank instantly into one of
the wicker chairs, with a sigh of thankfulness.

The others followed his example, and their host took out a well-filled
cigar case and passed it around. Tucker accepted one; the others
declined.

“Layton ought to show up soon,” Clingwood remarked, settling back in
his chair and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I believe he’s due in
Wilton at eleven forty-seven.”

“Layton?” Dick exclaimed interestedly. “Not Charlie Layton, the
Columbia man?”

“That’s the boy. Know him?”

“I’ve met him. He’s one of the best milers in the country. Stovebridge
must be pretty good to run against him.”

“He is,” returned the older man. “He trains with a crowd that I’m not
at all in sympathy with, but, for all that, he’s not a bad fellow;
crackerjack tennis player, and has a splendid record for long distance
running. He keeps himself in fair training and doesn’t lush as much as
most of his friends do.”

“I see,” Dick said thoughtfully.

This did not sound at all like a fellow who would run down a child and
never stop to see how badly she was hurt. As a rule, good athletes are
not cowards, though he had known exceptions.

At the same time, Stovebridge’s actions had been suspicious. Dick had
not failed to notice his consternation at the sight of the cap, though
he had quickly recovered himself and his explanation had been plausible
enough.

Later, during Merriwell’s conversation with him, the fellow’s agitation
had been palpable. That he was laboring under a tremendous mental
strain, the Yale man was certain. Of course, the cause of it might have
been something quite different, but to Dick it looked very much as
though Brose Stovebridge knew a good deal more about the accident than
would appear.

And he had come to the club that morning alone in a red car!

All at once Dick became conscious that some one had paused on the drive
quite close to the veranda and was looking at him.

As he raised his head quickly, he saw that it was the same dark-haired,
sullen youth he had passed as he came out of the farmhouse that morning.

To Dick’s astonishment the fellow’s eyes were fixed on him with a
look of fierce, malignant hatred which was unmistakable. His fingers
twitched convulsively and his whole attitude was one of consuming rage.

As Merriwell looked up, the other seemed to control himself with an
effort, and, turning his head away, slouched on along the drive.

“What’s the matter with him I wonder?” the Yale man mused. “He looks as
if he could eat me up with the greatest pleasure in life. I wonder who
he is?”

He turned to Roger Clingwood, who was talking with Buckhart and Tucker.

“Who is that fellow that just passed, Mr. Clingwood?” he asked, when
there was a lull in the conversation. “Did you notice him?”

“Yes, I saw him. That’s Jim Hanlon; he occasionally does odd jobs about
the grounds.”

“Hanlon!” Dick exclaimed. “Any relation to the little girl?”

“Yes, her brother.”

“Oh, I see.”

Dick hesitated.

“Is he--all there?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

Roger Clingwood looked rather surprised.

“Yes, so far as I know. He’s deaf and dumb, you see, and has the
reputation of being rather hot tempered at times; but I never heard
that he didn’t have all his faculties. Poor fellow! It’s enough to
drive any one dotty to have to do all one’s talking with pencil and
paper. I’m not surprised that he loses his temper now and then.”

“I should say not,” Tucker put in. “Just imagine getting into an
argument and having to write it all out. I’d lay down and cough up the
ghost.”

“I opine you’d blow up and bust, Tommy,” Buckhart grinned. “Or else the
hot air would strike in and smother you.”

“You’re envious of my wit and persiflage,” declared Tucker. “I’d be
ashamed to show such a disposition as that, if I were you.”

“When you’re talking with Hanlon, do you also have to take to pencil
and paper?” Dick asked interestedly.

“Oh, no,” Clingwood answered. “He knows what you’re saying by watching
your lips. He’s amazingly good at it, too; I’ve never seen him stumped.”

At that moment Stovebridge strolled out of the clubhouse and stopped
beside Clingwood’s chair.

“Any signs of Layton yet?” he drawled.

“Haven’t seen him,” the other man answered. “He’s had hardly time to
get here from Wilton, has he?”

“Plenty, if he came on the eleven forty-seven. Sartoris went over with
his car to meet him. I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.”

He turned away and walked slowly down the veranda toward Marston
lounging in a corner.

As Dick followed him with his eyes, there was a slightly puzzled look
in them.

Stovebridge was so cool and self-possessed, so utterly different from
the man who had shown such agitation barely half an hour before, that
for an instant Merriwell was staggered.

“Either I’m wrong and he’s innocent,” he thought to himself, “or he has
the most amazing self-control. There isn’t a hint in his manner that
the fellow has a trouble in the world.”

Then the Yale man’s intuitive good sense reasserted itself.

“He’s bluffing,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll stake my
reputation that, for all his pretended indifference, Brose Stovebridge
is either the guilty man, or he knows who is. And I rather think he’s
the one himself.”

Roger Clingwood pulled out his watch.

“Well, boys, it’s about time for lunch,” he remarked. “Suppose I take
you up to your rooms and, after you’ve brushed up a bit, we’ll go in
and have a bite to eat.”

“I’ll get the bags out of the car and be with you in a minute,” Dick
said as they stood up.

“Wait, I’ll ring for a man to take them up,” proposed Clingwood.

“Don’t bother,” Dick said quickly. “They’re very light, and Brad and I
can easily carry them. Besides, I’d like to see just where they’ve put
the car so that I’ll know where to go if I want to take her out.”

“Well, have your own way,” smiled the other. “The garage is around at
the back. Follow the drive and you can’t miss it.”

Leaving Tucker and Bigelow with their host, the two chums followed the
latter’s directions and had no difficulty in locating the automobile
sheds.

Merriwell was glad of the opportunity, for he wanted very much to have
a look at Stovebridge’s car. In fact, that was his principal reason for
coming out instead of having the bags sent for.

There were a dozen machines in the sheds, of all sizes and makes, but
only two runabouts. One was a small electric, and the other--standing
in the compartment next to Dick’s car, the _Wizard_--was a new,
high-power roadster, painted a dark red.

“That’s the one, I reckon,” he said aloud, as they surveyed it.

The Texan’s eyes crinkled.

“I opine it is, pard, if you say so,” he grinned. “Might a thick, onery
cow-puncher ask, what one?”

“Stovebridge’s car,” Merriwell explained briefly.

The Westerner gave a low whistle.

“Oh, ho! A red runabout,” he murmured. “So you think he’s the gent
we’re after?”

As Dick stepped in to examine the car more closely, his eyes fell upon
a scrap of paper which lay on the ground close by one of the forward
wheels. Picking it up, he saw that it was a torn piece of common brown
wrapping paper, very much mussed and dirty. He was about to toss it
aside when he happened to turn it over. The next instant his eyes
widened with surprise.

“What the mischief is this, I wonder?” he said in a low tone.

Buckhart stepped forward and looked at it over the other’s shoulder.

“‘His name is Dick Merriwell’,” he read slowly. “Who’s been taking your
name in vain, partner?”

Dick made no reply. He was busy trying to decipher the illiterate
scrawl which preceded the one legible sentence the Texan had read.
Slowly, word by word, he made it out.

“Somebody--run over--Amy--and--kill her,” he read at last.

“Amy--who is Amy?” he mused. “Why, that’s the little girl we picked up
this morning--Amy Hanlon.”

He looked at the paper again, and then, like a ray of light, the
solution flashed into his brain.

“Why, that dumb fellow--her brother--must have written this!” he
exclaimed. “Clingwood said he had to do his talking on paper. But what
on earth is my name here for? Wait a minute.”

His eyes went back to the scrap of paper, and for a few minutes there
was silence. When he looked up at Buckhart, his face was set and his
eyes stern.

“Listen, Brad,” he said rapidly. “On this paper there are four
questions and one answer. The questions were written by an illiterate
person; the answer--was not. It is evidently part of a conversation
between this dumb fellow and some one else. Hanlon first informs this
person that his sister had been run over and killed. How he got the
idea I don’t know, unless she had fainted when he went into the room,
and he did not wait long enough to find out the truth. Then he proceeds
to inform whoever he is talking with that he will kill the man who ran
the child down. Then he writes: ‘What’s the name of the fellow that
came, with three others, in that car?’ Do you make any sense out of
that, Brad?”

The Texan shook his head.

“I sure don’t,” he said decidedly.

“Well, I don’t know as I blame you,” Merriwell returned. “The next
sentence is apparently the answer to a question by the other man. It
is: ‘He killed Amy.’ Meaning that the man in a car with three others
ran over his sister, which, of course, we know isn’t so. There was only
one, according to her statement. Then follows the line in another hand
which you read: ‘His name is Dick Merriwell.’ Don’t you see now, Brad?”

“Afraid I’m awful thick----”

“Why, it’s clear as day,” Merriwell interrupted. “This Hanlon has
somehow got the idea that I ran over the little girl. He doesn’t know
my name and proceeds to ask this unknown person what it is, giving
at the same time the reason why he wants to know. He gets the answer
without a word of denial or explanation, and goes away with the firm
belief that I am a murderer. That accounts for the look he gave me when
he passed the veranda a little while ago.”

“The miserable snake!” exploded the irate Westerner. “Wait till I put
my blinkers on him!”

“He isn’t to blame,” Dick asserted quickly. “He thinks he’s right. It’s
the other man I’d like to get my hands on--the fellow that let him go
on believing a lie.”

He paused and looked significantly at Buckhart.

“Who is the man most interested in shifting the blame to my shoulders?”
he asked in a hard voice. “Whom have we suspected? Under whose car did
I pick up this paper?”

“Stovebridge!”

The word came in a smothered roar from the lips of the irate Texan,
and, turning swiftly, he started toward the clubhouse, his face
flushed with rage and his eyes flashing.

“Stop! Come back, Brad,” Dick called. “You must not do anything now. We
have no real proof; he would deny everything.”

Buckhart hesitated and then came slowly back to the shed. Dick went
over to his own car and pulled out a couple of bags from the tonneau.

“Don’t worry, you untamed Maverick of the Pecos,” he said with a half
smile. “We’ll get him right before very long.”

He folded the paper and put it carefully away in his breast pocket.

“I’ve got this, for one thing,” he went on, “and I also have an idea in
my head which I think will come to something.”




CHAPTER IV.

STOVEBRIDGE FINDS AN ALLY.


Brose Stovebridge dropped down in a chair beside his friend Marston and
pulled out his cigarette case.

“Have one?” he invited, extending it to the other.

Marston selected a cigarette languidly.

“How did this fellow Merriwell happen to honor the club with his
presence to-day?” he inquired sarcastically.

Stovebridge struck a match and held it to the other’s cigarette; then,
lighting his own, he sank back in the chair.

“He’s Clingwood’s friend, I believe,” he answered with apparent
indifference. “You speak as though you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t,” snapped Marston. “I hate him--hate the whole brood.”

The blond fellow raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t know you’d ever met him,” he commented. “You certainly didn’t
greet him as though you had ever laid eyes on him before.”

“I haven’t,” the other said bitterly. “I know his brother--that’s
enough.”

“His brother?” queried Stovebridge.

“Yes, Frank Merriwell. I ran up against him at Yale, and of all the
straight-laced freaks he took the cake--wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t smoke;
wouldn’t play poker, wouldn’t do anything but bone, and go in for
athletics.”

“Humph!” remarked Stovebridge cynically. “I don’t wonder you didn’t
like him. He wasn’t in your class at all. But if he was as good an
athlete as his brother, he must have been some pumpkins. I don’t just
see, though, how that accounts for your violent antipathy. Why didn’t
you let him go on his benighted way and have nothing to do with him?”

Marston’s heavy brows contracted in a scowl.

“You don’t suppose I cared a hang what he did, do you?” he snarled.
“That didn’t worry me any, but he had to get meddlesome and butt into
my affairs. Got my best friend so crazy about him that he went and gave
up cards and all that, and trained with Merriwell’s crowd. Of course,
he was no use to me after that. Do you wonder that I dislike Frank
Merriwell, and his brother as well?”

Stovebridge hesitated.

“Don’t know as I do?” he said in a preoccupied manner.

He had been thinking of something else.

They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Once or twice Marston glanced
curiously at his friend, who was scowling at the floor.

“What’s the matter with you to-day, Brose?” he asked presently. “You
act like you had something on your mind.”

The other looked up with a sudden start.

“Why, no; I----”

Marston shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“Don’t tell me, if you don’t want to,” he drawled. “But if it’s
something you want to keep to yourself, for goodness sake, wipe that
scowl off your face and brace up.”

Stovebridge eyed the other with a speculative glance. Why not confide
in Marston? He hated Merriwell and would certainly never peach.
Besides, he might suggest something helpful.

“I’ll tell you about it, Fred,” he said in a low tone, as he drew his
chair closer to his friend. “I’m in a deuce of a scrape. I--I--was the
one--who ran over that kid this morning.”

His face flushed a little; his eyes were averted. He did not find it
easy to tell, even to Fred Marston.

The latter gave a low whistle.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You don’t say! How did it happen?”

“It was at the bend by the Hanlon farm,” Stovebridge explained. “I was
hitting up a pretty good clip, and when I came round the bend she was
standing in the middle of the road. There was plenty of time for her to
get away, but she never moved. I tried to run to one side, but there
wasn’t room, and--the kid went under.”

“I always said they didn’t have sense enough to get out of the way,”
Marston remarked in a vexed tone.

Then he looked curiously at his friend.

“What made you beat it?” he asked. “Why didn’t you stop and pick her
up? It wasn’t your fault--no one could have blamed you, if you only
hadn’t run away.”

“I couldn’t, Fred--I simply couldn’t,” Stovebridge confessed, without
lifting his eyes. “My one idea was to get away before any one saw me.
You know the beastly things they do to a fellow sometimes. Why, I might
have been jugged for a year or more.”

“Yes, I know,” agreed the other. “Still----”

He stopped abruptly and looked out over the golf course in a meditative
way.

“You managed pretty well, though,” he said presently as he turned back
to Stovebridge. “No one saw you on your way here, I suppose?”

The other shook his head.

“No; if it wasn’t for that beastly cap I should feel quite safe. But
Merriwell suspects me on that account.”

Marston’s beady eyes glittered.

“Let him suspect!” he snapped angrily. “We’ll fix that all right. It
wouldn’t be safe for you to buy another, but there’s nothing to prevent
my doing so.”

“Of course there isn’t!” Stovebridge exclaimed in a tone of relief.
“And you’ll do it?”

Marston’s teeth snapped together.

“I certainly will,” he declared. “I’d do more than that to spite a
Merriwell. Lend me your car and I’ll go to Wilton right after lunch.”

Stovebridge breathed a sigh of relief. How fortunate he had confided
in Marston. With the question of the cap settled and Jim Hanlon
sidetracked, he would have nothing to fear. Dick Merriwell might do his
worst, but he could prove nothing.

Marston arose to his feet, yawning.

“Well, let’s toddle in and get something sustaining,” he suggested. “I
feel the need of a little bracer.”

“Don’t forget to pick out a medium check,” Stovebridge reminded, as
they strolled through the reception hall to the dining room beyond. “I
said mine was a little larger than the one he picked up, but if you get
it too pronounced, Bob Jennings will smell a rat. He’s a bit doubtful
now.”

“Trust me,” Marston returned confidently.

They settled themselves comfortably at a small table near one of the
windows, and a waiter hurried up.

“Two Martinis--dry,” Marston said, unfolding his napkin. “Bring them
right away.”

“Not any for me,” Stovebridge put in hastily. “I’ve got to run this
afternoon.”

“Oh, shucks! What’s one cocktail?” expostulated the other. “Just put a
little ginger into you.”

But Stovebridge persisted in his refusal; already he had taken
considerably more stimulant than he felt was wise. So when the
cocktails came Marston drank them both.

While his friend was writing out the order, Stovebridge glanced idly
about the well-filled room. He gave a slight start as his eyes met
those of Dick Merriwell, who was seated with his party three or four
tables away. The Yale man was looking at him with a certain steady
scrutiny that was a little disconcerting. There was no gleam of
friendliness in his dark eyes, but rather a cold, steely glitter. His
fine mouth was set in a hard line, curving disdainfully at the corners,
as though he were regarding something beneath his contempt. It was not
a pleasant expression, and, despite his belief that the other could
really prove nothing, Stovebridge could not help feeling a little
uneasy.

“Who are you staring at?”

Marston’s drawling voice roused Stovebridge, and, turning quickly, he
looked at his friend.

“Merriwell,” he breathed softly.

“Bah!” snapped the other. “He can’t do anything. We’ll put a spoke in
his wheel. For goodness’ sake, Brose, do brace up and forget it!”

Stovebridge made an effort to do so, but all the time he was eating
lunch he had an uneasy feeling that those cold eyes were still fixed
upon him, and it was only by the most determined exertion of will power
that he kept himself from looking again toward the table where Roger
Clingwood and his guests seemed to be enjoying themselves so thoroughly.

As they came out to the veranda after lunch, Roger Clingwood pulled out
his watch impatiently.

“Almost two!” he exclaimed. “What in the world is the matter with
Layton?”

He turned to a short, pleasant-faced, youngish-looking fellow who,
also watch in hand, was looking anxiously down the drive.

“Heard anything of Charlie Layton, Niles?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” the other answered petulantly. “I can’t understand
what’s delayed him. He promised to be here soon after twelve, and
the race was to be pulled off at three. People are beginning to come
already.”

“Sartoris is there to meet him, I believe,” Clingwood remarked.

“Yes, and I tried just now to get him on the phone, but couldn’t.”

Jack Niles shut his watch with a snap and shoved it back in his pocket
irritably. He was extremely homely. Every feature seemed to be either
too large or too small, or not placed right on his face; but for all
that there was something very attractive in his expression, and in the
straightforward, honest directness of his brown eyes. His clothes were
loud almost to eccentricity, and it was quite evident that he was a
thorough-going, out-and-out sport.

As he started to walk away, Roger Clingwood caught his arm.

“Oh, by the way, Jack,” he said suddenly, “I want you to meet my friend
Merriwell. Dick, this is Jack Niles, to whose efforts is due the fact
that we still occasionally have athletic events at the club.”

As Niles turned quickly, his hand outstretched, the worried look on his
face gave place to one of surprised interest.

“Not Dick Merriwell, of Yale?” he asked eagerly.

Dick smiled as he took the other’s hand.

“I happen to be,” he said quietly.

He felt a sudden liking for this homely young fellow with the honest
eyes, who looked as though he was square down to the very bone.

“Well, say!” Niles exclaimed, as he gripped Dick’s hand and worked it
up and down like a pump handle. “If this isn’t a little bit of all
right. I’ve seen you play ball, and I’ve seen you run, but I never had
a chance of shaking hands before. What are you doing away out here?”

“Touring with some friends of mine,” Dick answered smiling. “I’d like
you to meet them.”

He introduced Buckhart, Tucker and Bigelow, and for a few minutes they
stood talking together.

“I don’t know what we’ll do if Layton throws us down,” Niles said
anxiously. “We’ve made so much talk about the race, and there’ll be
an awful mob here to see it. Oh, there’s Sartoris! Now we’ll find out
something. Excuse me, will you?”

Without waiting for a reply, he dashed down the steps toward a car that
had just driven up. Its occupant, a tall, bare-headed fellow in tennis
flannels, sprang out, waving a yellow envelope in his hand.

“He can’t get here until to-morrow,” he explained. “Held up by a wreck
on the road.”

Niles took the telegram in silence, and, as he read it, his face
shadowed.

“Well, what do you think of that?” he muttered, as he crumpled it
in his hand. “To-morrow! And look at the bunch that’s here to-day,
expecting to see something good. Coming thicker every minute, too.”

He glanced down the drive where several cars were in sight, heading
toward the clubhouse.

“Wouldn’t that drive you to the batty house!” he went on. “I suppose
it’s up to yours truly to get busy and announce that there ‘won’t be no
race.’”

His eyes, full of an expression of whimsical chagrin, roved slowly
over the crowd which had hastily gathered at the approach of Sartoris,
until they rested on Dick Merriwell’s face.

The next moment a gleam of hope had leaped into them, and Niles sprang
up the steps to the Yale man’s side.

“Say, what’s the matter with your taking Layton’s place, old fellow,
and saving my rap?” he asked eagerly.

Merriwell smiled a little.

“It would be rather difficult to take his place,” he said slowly.
“Layton is one of the best milers in the country, and it’s a long time
since I’ve done any running.”

“Oh, that be hanged!” exploded Niles. “You’re too blamed modest. You
can do it if you want to. Come ahead, old fellow, and save me from
making an ass of myself by disappointing this crowd.”

“When you put it that way, Niles, I can scarcely refuse,” Dick smiled.
“I’ll be very glad to do what you want, only you mustn’t expect too
much of me.”

Jack Niles was overjoyed.

“That’s bully!” he exclaimed. “You’ve helped me out of a deuce of a
hole and saved the day. It’s just my luck to find a substitute as good
or better than the original.”

Brose Stovebridge stood near, a slight sneer on his face.

“It’s lucky I’m not the one who didn’t show up,” he drawled. “Merriwell
seems to think such a lot of this fellow Layton that I don’t suppose he
could possibly have been induced to run against him, if our positions
were reversed.”

Apparently his words were intended for the man next to him, but they
were quite loud enough for the Yale man to hear.

The latter turned and surveyed Stovebridge with a cool, disconcerting
glance.

“I happen to have run against Layton several times, Mr. Stovebridge,”
he said quietly. “If he were here to-day, I should be very glad to do
so again. I hesitated just now--for another reason.”

To the guilty man, his meaning was obvious; and though Stovebridge
shrugged his shoulders with affected indifference, his face flushed,
and he made no reply.

“Come ahead, fellows, and get ready,” Niles broke in briskly. “We’ve
got just ten minutes to start on time.”

He took Dick’s arm and hustled him through to the dressing room, where
he hunted up running trunks, shoes, and shirt; and in less than the
allotted time, the Yale man was ready for the contest.

As they came out of the clubhouse and walked over to the track,
Merriwell felt a thrill of the old enthusiasm. The well-kept track and
the crowd of spectators thronging both sides made his blood course more
swiftly and caused his eyes to sparkle.

They went directly to the starting point, where Stovebridge presently
joined them. Niles, mounted on a stand, megaphone in hand, waved his
arm for silence. When the hub-bub of talk and laughter had ceased he
put the instrument to his lips.

“Gentlemen,” he declaimed, “I have to announce that Mr. Layton has been
detained by a wreck and cannot reach the club this afternoon.”

A murmur of disappointment arose from the crowd, which was quickly
stilled by another motion from Niles.

“I have, however,” he went on, “secured an efficient substitute in the
person of Dick Merriwell, of Yale, who has kindly consented to run in
order that we shall not be disappointed.”

As he jumped to the ground, the quick round of hearty applause, mingled
with cheers, showed that Merriwell’s name was not unknown. Then the
buzz of talk started up again with renewed vigor, as the judges and
timekeepers consulted with Niles and arranged the details of the race.

Dick stood a little to one side of the mark, talking to Buckhart, whose
face was aglow with enthusiasm.

“Lick the stuffing out of the coyote, pard,” urged Brad, in a low tone.
“You can sure do it if you try.”

“No question of my trying, old fellow,” Merriwell smiled. “There’s no
use in going into a thing unless you do your best! But they seem to
think this fellow is pretty good, and you know I’m out of practice.”

“That don’t worry me a whole lot,” the Texan grinned.

“Say, Merriwell, come over here, will you?” Niles called, standing near
Stovebridge.

“We’ll have to toss for positions,” he explained, as Dick walked over
to him. “The track is just a mile in circumference, so that you’ll have
to make one complete circuit, and of course, the fellow on the inside
has a little the advantage.”

He took a coin out of his pocket and sent it spinning in the air.

“Heads, or tails?”

“Tails,” Dick said quickly.

The other caught the coin deftly.

“Heads it is,” he grinned. “You lose. Take your places,
gentlemen--Stovebridge, inside; Merriwell, out.”

Dick toed the mark, and his eyes wandered for an instant down the long
line of eagerly watching men. As he did so, he caught sight of the
dark, sullen face of Jim Hanlon glaring at him from behind two of the
clubmen.

“Still thinks I’m it, by the looks of him,” the Yale man said to
himself. “I must have a talk with him when this is over.”

Then he thrust the fellow out of his mind and crouched for the start.
Stovebridge was beside him, vibrant and ready. The two timekeepers
stood by the mark, stop watches in hand. Niles stepped back a pace and
drew a small revolver from his pocket.

“Are you ready?” he called in a clear voice.

He raised the revolver above his head.

“Set!”

Both runners quivered slightly, as they waited with every muscle tense
the moment when they could shoot forward down the track.

The sharp crack of the pistol split the silence, and like a flash both
men leaped forward, to the accompaniment of a bellow from the watching
crowd, and flew down the stretch of hard, dry cinders.

Merriwell had made the better start and was slightly ahead of the
other man. Presently it was seen that this lead was slowly increasing,
and the spectators cheered wildly as they observed it, for as a rule
they were an impartial lot and believed in shouting for the best man.
Besides they were grateful to the stranger for having made the race
possible.

Almost imperceptibly this lead increased. In spite of his lack of
practice, the Yale man was wonderfully speedy and ran in almost perfect
form, and with amazing ease. His body was bent forward but slightly,
with his head held up naturally. He threw his legs out well in front
with a full easy stride, and brought his feet down squarely, his thighs
and knees thrown a little forward. There was absolutely no lost
motion. His arms swung easily beside his body, and, with every stride,
seemed to help him along.

Stovebridge ran well, but he had a bad trick of swinging his arms
back and forth across his body, which retarded him slightly, and
moreover, in his haste to finish the stride, he bent his knee somewhat,
thus losing a fraction of an inch each time, which would mount up
considerably in the course of the mile.

The first quarter of a mile was made by Merriwell in a fraction over
a minute--almost sprinting time. Stovebridge was barely two seconds
longer. Then both men seemed to settle down to a slightly easier gait,
for such speed could not be kept up for the entire distance, and the
second quarter took several seconds longer.

The excitement was intense. Men shoved and jostled each other in their
eagerness to get a good view; some even ran out onto the track behind
the runners. There was no more talking and laughing. A tense silence
had fallen upon the crowd as they watched breathlessly.

Suddenly the Yale man was seen to stumble and almost lose his footing.
As he recovered his balance with a tremendous effort, Stovebridge shot
by him, and a great sigh went up from the crowd.

“He’s twisted his ankle!” gasped Jack Niles, his fingers closing on
Buckhart’s arm with unconscious strength.

The Texan made no reply. His face was set and a little pale.

The next instant Merriwell had recovered himself and flashed on down
the track with almost his former speed. To most of the spectators there
did not seem to be anything the matter with him, but those who were
near enough to see his face, noticed the lines of pain in it, and the
great beads of perspiration which stood out on his forehead.

“By Jove, that’s plucky!” Niles muttered. “It’s the nerviest thing I
ever saw.”

His keen eye had instantly taken in the situation. In some way the Yale
man had strained his ankle, but, instead of giving up the race he was
going to fight it out to the finish.

As Merriwell flashed over the three-quarter mile mark, Stovebridge
had a good twelve feet lead, but was showing signs of exhaustion. His
breath came in gasps, the sweat poured down his face, and his stride
was perceptibly shorter.

The Yale man, on the contrary, was in much better condition, except
for his left leg, which he seemed trying to favor at each step. It was
apparent to everyone, by this time, that he was suffering tortures with
every stride, but he showed no signs of giving up. Instead, to the
amazement of all, he took a fresh spurt and actually began to gain on
his opponent.

Slowly he crept up. Foot by foot the distance between the two was
lessened, until at length it was reduced to a yard. But there was
not enough time. Already the finish was in sight, and the eager
watchers waited in strained silence the end of this amazing race.
Could the gamey fellow from Yale possibly make up those three feet in
the few seconds which remained? They feared not, for almost without
exception, their sympathies were with the man who was now showing such
extraordinary pluck.

There was a final spurt on the part of both men, and then, almost in
the last stride, Stovebridge flung himself forward with uplifted arms,
and breasted the tape a fraction in advance of Dick.

The Clover Club champion had won, but the resulting applause was
strangely feeble. There was scarcely a man present who did not realize
that Merriwell was the better of the two.

As Dick reeled across the line, he staggered and a spasm of pain
flashed into his face.

Jack Niles caught him by the shoulder.

“Quick, Buckhart!” he ripped out in his sharp, decisive tones. “We
must get him into the house and look after that ankle. Good nerve, my
boy--good nerve!”

Merriwell smiled faintly.

“Well, I lost the race for you, Niles!” he said.

“Lost be hanged!” snapped the other. “You’re the gamest piece of work
that ever came down the pike. Why the deuce didn’t you stop when you
twisted your ankle that way?”

“I don’t generally give up when I can still go ahead,” Dick said
quietly.

“Well, you’ve got that foot of yours into a beautiful condition,” Niles
went on. “It’s beginning to swell already. Here, sit down, while we
take you into the house.”

He and Buckhart clasped hands and, lifting Merriwell up between them,
started slowly back toward the clubhouse, the spectators straggling
behind, discussing the result with much interest.

The two fellows carried Dick into the dressing room, where he rested on
a chair while they bathed his ankle in cold water and then bandaged it
as tightly as they could to keep down the swelling.

“How the mischief did you do it, pard?” Buckhart asked, while this was
being done.

“I think I stepped on a small stone,” Dick answered “At least it felt
like that.”

Niles looked up quickly.

“A stone!” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible. I walked over the track an
hour before the race and it was in perfect condition. It couldn’t have
been a stone.”

“Well, it felt like one,” Dick smiled. “I can’t swear to it.”

Niles turned to one of the men who had acted as timekeepers, and who
was helping them with the bandage.

“Say, Johnson, just take a run out to the track and see if you can see
anything of a stone, will you?” he asked. “I want to find out about
this.”

Johnson was back in a few minutes and reported that he could not find
even a pebble on the track. He had questioned the dumb fellow, Hanlon,
who was raking up near the clubhouse, and found that he had not yet
touched anything on the track.

“I must have been mistaken, then,” Dick said lightly. “It was just pure
carelessness.”

He took a shower and then dressed and limped into the reception hall
with Buckhart and Niles, who had waited for him.

A group of men were talking in the centre of the room, and Niles
stepped aside for a moment to speak to one of them, leaving Merriwell
and the Texan standing close beside one of the big windows which opened
on the veranda.

Brose Stovebridge was lounging in a wicker chair just outside, and
as Dick noticed him he saw a look of eager interest flash into the
fellow’s eyes, which were turned toward the drive.

A moment later Fred Marston came in sight, walking rapidly along the
veranda, and presently stopped beside his friend’s chair.

“Well, did you get it?” the latter asked eagerly.

“Sure, I did,” returned Marston with a smile.

He pulled a small parcel wrapped in brown paper out of his pocket and
handed it to Stovebridge, who almost snatched it out of his hand.

“Ah,” he breathed in a tone of relief. “I guess that will settle his
hash. He can suspect all he wants----”

He broke off abruptly as he turned his head and looked into Dick
Merriwell’s cool, slightly smiling eyes. A sudden rush of color flamed
into his face, and, with a quick drawn breath, he half rose from his
chair.

“What’s the matter?” asked Marston.

Then, following the direction of the other’s fascinated gaze, he too,
saw the Yale man, and scowled fiercely.

“Come in and let’s get a drink,” he said abruptly. “I need a bracer.”

Stovebridge got up a little unsteadily, and the two vanished in the
direction of the buffet.

Dick looked significantly at the Texan.

“What do you think of that, Brad?” he asked quietly.

“Huh!” grunted Buckhart contemptuously. “The onery varmit’s sure a
whole lot shy of you, pard. If he isn’t the coyote you’re looking for,
I’ll eat my hat. You hear me gently warble!”

Merriwell gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

“I wonder what was in that package,” he mused. “And I wonder too, where
this Marston comes in.”

“I reckon he’s in the same class as Stovebridge,” the Texan said
emphatically. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw a yearling
by the tail.”

Jack Niles came up briskly at that moment.

“Well, fellows, let’s make ourselves comfortable outdoors,” he said.
“You don’t want to stand on that leg of yours more than you can help
for a while, old chap.”

“It’s feeling pretty comfortable just now,” Dick returned, with a
smile. “Your bandages are all to the good.”

At the same time he was not sorry to sit down in one of the big wicker
chairs, soon becoming the centre of a laughing, joking crowd of men,
all bent on showing their admiration for the Yale athlete who had given
such an exhibition of nerve and pluck as few of them had ever seen.

Merriwell thoroughly enjoyed himself, and was so taken up with the
discussion and talk that he had no time to give to the problem which
he had set himself to solve. At length, as the afternoon wore on, the
fellows began to drop away. One by one, or in parties of two or three,
they left the club in motor cars, runabouts, or on horseback, and by
six o’clock there were only about a dozen left on the veranda, who were
either stopping at the club or taking dinner there.

Then Dick remembered Jim Hanlon, and turned to Buckhart who sat beside
him.

“Say, Brad,” he said in a low tone. “Do you think you could find that
dumb fellow and bring him into the clubhouse? You know I wanted to
straighten him out about who ran over the little girl. He seems to have
an idea that I did it.”

The Texan got up readily.

“Sure thing. He ought to be around somewheres--maybe in the kitchen.”

It was ten minutes before he came back with the announcement that
Hanlon was not to be found. They had told him in the kitchen that the
fellow usually went home at six o’clock.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Dick said. “I’ll probably see him
to-morrow.”

Very soon afterward they went in to dinner. Niles and two other men
joined them, and they made a jolly party around a big table in the
middle of the room, which was not so empty after all, quite a number of
people having driven out to the club especially to take dinner there.
Stovebridge and Marston sat at the same table they had occupied at
lunch, and Dick noticed that both seemed to be hitting it up pretty
freely.

The evening being a little chilly, they did not return to the veranda
after dinner, but made themselves comfortable in the reception hall,
where a fire had been lit in the great stone fireplace.

Presently Merriwell remembered that he wanted to call up the Hanlon
farm to find out about the little girl, and, on inquiring, found that
the telephone was in a small room opening out of the hall.

He had no trouble in getting the number, and Mrs. Hanlon herself came
to the telephone. She seemed very much worried and nervous, and told
that the doctor had been there almost all the afternoon. The child’s
arm had been broken and her head badly cut, and, from the symptoms, the
physician was afraid that there was some internal trouble.

“Poor little kid!” Dick muttered as he hung up the receiver. “I
certainly shall do my best to show up the brute who is responsible for
that. He ought to get the maximum penalty, and if she doesn’t pull
through I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”

He opened a door which led directly outside, and stepped out on the
deserted veranda. It was a perfect night, still and rather cool for
that time of year, and, as he looked up at the glittering stars, he
drew a long breath of pure oxygen.

All at once he heard a stealthy footfall behind him, and, half
turning, he caught a glimpse of a crouching figure close upon him.

As he leaped instinctively to one side he felt the impact of a spent
blow on his back. Something sharp pricked his skin.

He whirled around swiftly, only to see a shadowy figure leap from the
end of the veranda and disappear into the darkness.




CHAPTER V.

THE STRUGGLE IN THE DARK.


Like a flash Dick was after him, but as he reached the edge of the
veranda, he realized the futility of pursuing the would-be assailant.
The fellow, whoever he was, evidently knew the ground thoroughly, and,
handicapped as the Yale man was with his bandaged ankle, it would be a
waste of time to try and catch him.

He walked slowly back into the light that streamed out through one of
the windows, and slipped off his coat.

Just between the shoulders was a clean cut about twelve or fourteen
inches long, evidently made by an extremely sharp instrument.

The Yale man gave a low whistle.

“That fellow was out for blood,” he murmured. “That’s about as close a
call as I’ve ever had. I wonder----”

Putting his hand up to his back, he found that both shirt and
undershirt had been cut through, though not so badly, and that there
was a tiny cut in the skin just between the shoulder blades.

Thoughtfully he slipped into his coat again.

“That couldn’t have been Stovebridge,” he mused. “Much as the fellow
hates me, I don’t believe he would deliberately attempt murder.”

He glanced through the window into the reception-hall. Neither the tall
athlete nor his friend Marston were in the room.

Dick shook his head slowly.

“Just the same, it wasn’t him. It must have been that dumb fellow.
He’s been looking at me all day as though he would like to knife me,
and now he’s tried it. I wish I could get hold of him to convince him
that he’s on the wrong track.”

Just now, however, the Yale man was more troubled as to how he could
get up to his room and slip into his spare coat without attracting
attention by passing through the reception hall. He saw nothing to
be gained by letting the clubmen know what had happened. They could
do no good now, and Roger Clingwood would be worried to death and
tremendously mortified at the thought of such a thing happening to his
guest.

He remembered having noticed a small stairway leading from the second
floor straight down to an outside door which Clingwood told him
opened on the drive at the other end of the house--a door that was
occasionally used by members who wanted to go directly to their rooms.

This door might possibly be unlocked. At any rate it was worth trying.

Slipping around the house, he found to his relief that the door yielded
to his touch. In a moment he was upstairs, and had taken the coat from
his bag and slipped into it. Then he threw the other on a chair and
went downstairs again.

No one made any comment on his rather long absence, and presently they
all adjourned to the billiard room. Not wanting to tax his ankle, Dick
did not play but sat watching the others, and by ten o’clock, he was so
sleepy that he could scarcely keep his eyes open.

Niles noticed this as he stood beside the Yale man watching Buckhart
run off a string.

“Say, old man, you look as if you were about ready for your downey,” he
grinned.

Dick smiled.

“I am,” he confessed. “Sitting around this way, doing nothing, always
sends me off.”

“I don’t feel any too wide awake myself,” the other remarked. “As soon
as we finish this game, we’ll strap up that ankle of yours, and then
all of us can hit the pillow.”

The others being of the same mind, they presently put up the cues.
The Yale man’s ankle was treated with iodine, freshly bandaged, and
everyone trouped upstairs.

The entire second floor of the clubhouse was divided into a series of
small single rooms opening off a long hall. Most of the club members
who stayed there regularly, had quarters on the third floor, where the
rooms were larger and where there would be less need to shift around to
accommodate a large number of guests.

The Yale men had been assigned four of these rooms nearest the stairs,
and there were only two other rooms on that floor occupied, one by
Roger Clingwood, who was spending the night there on account of his
guests, and the other by a friend of Jack Niles.

Clingwood went before them, switching on the lights in each room, and,
having seen that they were provided with everything, he bade them good
night.

Bouncer Bigelow betrayed no interest in anything, save his overweening
desire to get to bed, and, closing his door at once, he proceeded to
disrobe in haste.

Tucker, however, wide awake and lively as usual, skipped into
Buckhart’s room where Dick had stopped for a minute’s talk.

“Well, how does the sleuthing come on?” he chirped, as he dropped down
on the bed. “What clues has the great Sherlock Holmes unearthed?”

“Not as many as I’d like, Thomas,” Dick smiled. “While I’m morally
certain that Stovebridge is the man we’re looking for, I can’t quite
prove it.”

Tucker’s eyes widened.

“Whew!” he whistled softly. “Stovebridge, eh? The great and only
distance runner. Keep it up, Richard. There isn’t a man about these
parts I’d rather see nailed. He thinks he’s just about the warmest
baby that ever chased over a cinder path. You ought to have heard him
blowing around after the race this afternoon, when anybody with the
brains of a hen could see that you were the better man. It made me
sick.”

Dick smiled. “He won fairly enough; but I would like to know how that
stone got on the track--for it was a stone without any doubt.”

“Maybe that flabby, rum-soaked friend of his put it there,” suggested
Tucker seriously. “He’s another one I’d like to sock in the jaw.”

Merriwell’s eyes twinkled as he got up and moved slowly toward the door.

“What’s the matter with you, Tommy?” he asked. “Seems to me you’re
awfully savage to-night.”

“It’s my nature,” Tucker returned plaintively. “I really have the
sweetest disposition you ever saw, but there are some men that rile me
like a sour gooseberry.”

He gave a sigh and dropped back on the bed at full length with the air
of one who was comfortably settling himself for a long stay.

“Now, look ahere, little one,” Buckhart said firmly, as he beheld these
preparations, “you needn’t think you’re going to settle down there for
one of your talk fests. I’m going to bed, and I reckon you’d better
hike for your own bunk. You hear me!”

Tucker arose with an injured look on his freckled face.

“I’m thankful I haven’t the inhospitable nature of some people,” he
remarked, as he edged toward the door. “I’ve heard much about the
free, open-handed nature of Westerners, but the only one I ever had
the misfortune to get real intimate with, has such a mean, envious,
grudging----”

He dodged through the door just ahead of the Texan’s shoe, and finished
his sentence in the corridor:

“---- unaccommodating disposition, that he must be the exception that
proves the rule.”

“Go to bed, you little runt,” Buckhart grinned. “You sure buzz around
worse than a mosquito. Go to bed before I lay violent hands on you.”

“Don’t you dare put your hands on me,” defied Tommy. “I’ll chaw you up
if you do. You hear me gently----”

The Westerner made a dash at him, and the little fellow skipped into
his room and snapped the key.

Dick, who had been watching these proceedings with a smile, now walked
down the hall to the room next to Buckhart’s and, stepping in, closed
the door mechanically behind him.

Then, as he groped for the electric light button, he suddenly
remembered that, when he had stepped into Brad’s room, he had left his
own light turned on. In fact, it had been burning ever since Roger
Clingwood had come upstairs with them.

This was rather peculiar. He remembered distinctly that there were two
globes, one on each side of the dressing-table; it seemed impossible
that they should both burn out at the same time. Some one must have
turned the switch. And the annoying part of it was that he did not know
where that switch was. He turned to open the hall door and let in a
little light from outside, and as he did so he suddenly realized that
there was some one else in the room.

Instantly he held his breath and listened. The sound of guarded
breathing was unmistakable; some one was there, and, what was even more
unpleasant, that some one was between him and the door.

For an instant Dick stood like a statue. Could this be Jack Niles, or
one of the other members of the club playing a trick on him? It did not
seem likely, and yet who else----

Jim Hanlon!

As the thought flashed suddenly into his brain, it must be confessed
that his heart began to beat a little unevenly though the hand which
reached out and began to grope along the wall for the switch was
perfectly steady.

He must find that button. With the light on, he had not the slightest
fear of his assailant, armed though he probably was. But in the pitch
darkness of the room the other had an immense advantage of which, the
Yale man’s experience earlier in the evening warned him, the fellow
would not hesitate to avail himself. His fingers searched the wall
swiftly, but in vain.

Then a board creaked softly near the door. The man was coming toward
him.

Merriwell at once abandoned his search for the switch and turned to
face the intruder. His back was toward the wall, and he could not
see his hand before his face. There was a little satisfaction in the
thought that the other man was probably no better off.

Then the unpleasant recollection came to him of having heard that when
a person has lost one or more senses the remaining ones become more
keen and powerful. It was possible that this fellow could see in the
dark, or at least, distinguish enough to give him a great advantage.

Very softly the stealthy sound came on; the other had apparently
removed his shoes and was walking in his stocking feet. The Yale man
pictured to himself the attitude the fellow would take. His head and
shoulders would be bent in a crouching position, the right hand,
holding the knife, extended a little, with the point out. With this in
mind, he leaned forward a little himself, his feet braced, both arms
outstretched before him, and waited.

It seemed an interminable time before his keen eye saw what seemed
to be a shadow looming up not a foot away. Without an instant’s
hesitation, he plunged forward and made a beautiful flying tackle. As
he had hoped, he caught the fellow fairly about the knees and, with a
crash which shook the room, they went down together.

Like a flash, Dick twisted around and made a grab for the unknown’s
right wrist. In the darkness he missed it, but managed to get a grip on
the arm just below the elbow.

Then followed a brief but desperate struggle. The fellow writhed and
twisted and did his utmost to break away and free the hand which held
the knife, but, having once closed with his enemy, Merriwell had little
trouble in pinning him down.

He had scarcely done so when the hall door was flung open and Buckhart
stood on the threshold, Tucker just behind him.

“Suffering coyotes!” the Texan exclaimed as his eyes fell upon the two
men in close embrace on the floor.

Then he pushed the electric light button, which was close beside the
door, and the room was flooded with brilliancy.

“Come in, Brad,” Dick said quietly, “and close the door.”

Buckhart and Tucker both stepped inside, the latter shutting the door
after him.

“Kindly relieve this gentleman of his sticker, one of you,” came again
in Merriwell’s even tones.

To hear him, one would never have supposed that he had just been
engaged in a struggle for his life.

The fellow clung desperately to the long, keen knife, but the big Texan
seized his wrist with a grip of iron, and the next moment the weapon
clattered to the floor, being at once secured by Tucker.

Merriwell sprang lightly to his feet, and his assailant followed his
example more slowly and stood sullenly eying the three men.

It was Jim Hanlon.

“The miserable snake in the grass!” roared the Texan, his great fists
clenched and his eyes flashing fire. “He ought to be thrashed within an
inch of his life, and I’m going to do it!”

Dick put a detaining hand on his friend’s arm.

“Wait a minute, Brad,” he said quietly. “Don’t be in such a hurry. This
fellow is only doing what he thinks is right. I want to talk to him.”

He took a step forward and stood for an instant looking steadily at
Hanlon.

“You can understand what I am saying, can’t you?” he asked presently.

The other nodded sullenly.

“You came here to-night to kill me because you thought I was the one
who ran over your sister?” Dick queried.

The deaf mute made an emphatic gesture of assent, and his black eyes
flashed.

Merriwell continued to eye the other steadily.

“I did not do it,” he said quietly.

A look of scornful disbelief lit up Hanlon’s sombre eyes.

“Listen to me,” said Dick slowly, “and I will tell you what happened
this morning. My friends and I were driving to the club from Wilton. At
the curve we saw something in the road, and stopped. When I got out I
found that it was a little girl, unconscious and bleeding from a great
gash in her forehead. I carried her into the farmhouse and found that
she belonged there. She was not dead at the time, but badly hurt, and
the doctor was sent for at once----”

He stopped abruptly. The dumb youth was searching frantically in his
pocket for something; his mouth was trembling and his eyes filled with
a wild eagerness.

Dick stepped over to a small desk and took out a sheet of paper, marked
with the club letterhead, which he handed to Hanlon.

“Is that what you want?” he asked quietly.

The fellow snatched it from him and, turning to the dressing table,
rested it on the polished surface while he scrawled a brief sentence.
Then he thrust the paper into Dick’s hands.

“Not killed--is that true?”

The Yale man looked up from the paper.

“Perfectly true,” he said. “She is alive now. I telephoned to Mrs.
Hanlon this evening and found that she was alive, though in a very
critical condition.”

The other took the paper and wrote again.

“Will she die?”

“I don’t know,” Merriwell said simply, as he read the question.

Jim Hanlon seemed to be in an agony of indecision. His hands clenched
and unclenched and the slender, brown fingers twitching nervously. All
the time his glittering black eyes were fixed fiercely on the Yale
man’s face as if he were trying to plumb the depths of the other’s
soul and read his very thoughts. Finally he reached out, took the paper
from Merriwell’s hand, scrawled a sentence and gave it back again.

“If you didn’t run over her, who did?” was what Dick read.

As he raised his eyes again to Hanlon’s face, the Yale man felt a
thrill of pity go through him at the thought of what this fellow must
be suffering. He had also a distinct feeling of admiration for the
manner in which the mute was persevering in the face of all obstacles
in his search for the man who had been responsible for his little
sister’s injuries.

Whether Dick approved of the other’s primitive method of taking the law
into his own hands was another matter. Though the Yale man’s temper was
under perfect control, it was still alive, and there had been a time
when he might have done just what this dumb boy was trying to do. It
was not strange, then, that there should be a certain bond of sympathy
between the two.

“I am not sure,” he said, handing the paper back to Hanlon. “I have
been trying all day to find out.”

The other wrote hastily and returned the scrawl.

“Who do you think it is?”

Merriwell hesitated. The ferocity had quite gone from the boy’s face,
and its place been taken by a look of intense pleading. The Yale
man wondered whether it would be right for him to give voice to his
suspicions. And yet, they were more than mere suspicions. In his mind
there was no doubt whatever that Stovebridge was the guilty man, but
the difficulty was to get absolute proof.

As he watched the play of emotions on the mobile face of the lad before
him, a sudden thought leaped into Dick’s brain which made his eyes
sparkle and brought a half smile to his lips. What a solution that
would be--to make this fellow whom Stovebridge had fooled and played
with the means of bringing the clubman to justice!

“I think it is Stovebridge,” he said aloud; “but I am not sure. I want
you to find out the truth. Can you read the lip talk at a distance--say
at fifty feet?”

Hanlon nodded emphatically.

“Good! Well, this is what I want you to do. Stovebridge and this
Marston are great pals, and I believe Marston knows all about the
accident. They are likely to talk it over to-morrow--probably on the
veranda; for Marston always sits there. Of course, they would not talk
loud enough for any one sitting near them to hear, but they would never
suspect you, if you were out raking the drive. Yet you could read their
lips and understand. You get my meaning?”

There was a look of admiration in the boy’s eyes as he nodded.

“You’ve sure got a head on your shoulders, pard,” the big Texan said
enthusiastically. “That’s a jim dandy scheme.”

Dick only smiled and looked at Hanlon.

“I will fix it so that you will be put to work on the drive in the
morning,” he said. “And you know what to do. If they say enough to
betray themselves, write it down and come to me with it. I’ll do the
rest.”

The dumb fellow nodded emphatically. The dark eyes were full of a keen
intelligence as he looked at the Yale man.

“Well, I think that’s about all we’ve got to say to-night,” the latter
remarked, after a thoughtful pause. “It’s pretty late, and you’d better
be getting home.”

Still the other hesitated, and a flush slowly mounted into his tanned
face. Then he took the paper and wrote two words on it.

“I’m sorry.”

Merriwell smiled a little.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said quietly. “You thought you were doing
the right thing.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, the fellow following
him. They went down the narrow flight of stairs to the door which
opened onto the drive--a door that Dick found had been left unlocked.
With a brief gesture of farewell, the dumb man vanished into the
darkness. Merriwell turned the key and came back to his room, a look of
satisfaction on his face.




CHAPTER VI.

DICK MERRIWELL WINS.


About ten o’clock next morning Brose Stovebridge and his friend Marston
were sitting together in the latter’s favorite corner of the Clover
Club veranda.

Considering the crowd of the day before, the place seemed deserted.
One man, absorbed in the morning paper, lounged at the far end of the
veranda, and a foursome was just teeing off on the links across the
drive; but otherwise there was no one in sight.

Presently the deaf mute, shouldering a rake, came around the corner of
the house and began to rake up the roadway.

Fred Marston yawned.

“Deuced dull this morning,” he drawled.

“Little early yet for any one to be around,” Stovebridge returned
absently.

He was dressed much as he had been the day before, except that he wore
a cloth cap of medium black and white check, obviously new.

“Cap worked to a charm, didn’t it?” Marston remarked after a moment’s
pause. “I saw Merriwell taking it in when we drove up, and it stumped
him, all right. He’d be surprised to learn that I bought it yesterday
afternoon.”

“Yes, it’s got him guessing all right,” the other answered. “He may
suspect what he likes, but he can’t prove anything on me now.”

Despite the athlete’s assumption of nonchalance, there was an
underlying note of anxiety in his voice which Marston seemed to notice.

“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” he asked in a peevish tone. “You
ought to be chipper as a lark, and yet I swear you’ve got something on
your mind.”

Stovebridge glanced quickly around, but there was no one within hearing
distance.

“I can’t help worrying about the girl,” he said in a low voice. “I
heard this morning that the doctor was there all night. They’re afraid
of internal complications.”

“That’s too bad, of course,” Marston remarked, without any particular
feeling in his voice. “But I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. You’re
safe, no matter what happens.”

“But if she should die, there’ll be a rigid investigation,” Stovebridge
said slowly. “You can’t tell what they might unearth. The idea makes me
cursed nervous.”

“For goodness’ sake, don’t borrow trouble!” the other said sharply. “If
you keep on going around with that long face some one will begin to
smell a rat. All you’ve got to do is to sit tight and say nothing. They
can’t prove anything on you if you only throw a good bluff.”

Neither of them gave a thought to the dumb youth who was raking the
drive some forty feet away. But had Stovebridge seen the ferocious
glare in the dark eyes which were furtively watching him, he would have
been more than disturbed--he would have been seriously alarmed.

Marston yawned again and stretched himself lazily.

“Wish somebody would come around so we could get up a little poker
game,” he remarked. “This sitting here doing nothing is deadly dull.”

Stovebridge arose to his feet with sudden resolution.

“Get your clubs and let’s go around the nine hole course,” he
suggested. “It will do you good.”

“No thanks,” Marston drawled. “I never by any chance enjoy doing the
things that are good for me, and you know I hate golf. Toddle along,
Brose, and I’ll wait here until somebody comes around that has a
sensible idea of amusement.”

Stovebridge shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

“Well, I’ll have to do it alone, then,” he said as he started for the
dressing room for his clubs.

When he returned, a few minutes later, Jim Hanlon had disappeared.

“Aren’t you going to take a caddy?” Marston inquired as his friend
crossed the drive to the first tee.

“No; I’ve only got a few clubs. I can manage without one.”

Marston watched him drive off with a tolerant smile, and when
Stovebridge had disappeared over a knoll, he got up and lounged through
the reception hall to the buffet.

Stovebridge was not playing in good form at all. He drove wretchedly,
his brassy shots were impossible, and even his putting worse than he
had ever known it to be before. Consequently by the time he had holed
in at the fifth green with a score greater by fourteen than ever
before, he was in a furious rage and cursed the clubs, the balls, the
course--everything but himself.

With an effort he pulled himself together and made a fair drive from
the fifth tee. The course was rather winding and along one side was a
thick wood, which had been left quite untouched when the links were
laid out.

As he followed the ball he saw that the wind had taken it close to the
trees, if not in amongst them, and he cursed fiercely again.

When he came up, however, he found that it lay about six feet from the
edge of the wood, and, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he took
his cleek out of the bag and swung it once or twice over his shoulder.

His back was toward the trees, and he did not see the figure which
crept stealthily out of the underbrush.

The next instant there was a rush behind him, something struck him on
the back, and, taken by surprise, the clubman lost his footing and
fell, with Jim Hanlon on top of him, clutching his windpipe with all
the strength in his slim, muscular fingers.

After the first, momentary shock of surprise, Stovebridge struggled
desperately, finally succeeding in tearing the choking fingers from
his throat and struggling to his feet. For a moment he stood silent,
his breath coming in gasps and his eyes full of a great fear, as he
faced the crouching figure before him.

Then, without warning, the clubman snatched up the iron-headed cleek
and, springing forward, struck the other a terrific blow over the head.

Hanlon reeled and collapsed in a silent heap on the ground, blood
smearing his forehead.

For a full minute Stovebridge stood as if turned to stone. His face
was white as chalk, as he gazed in horror-stricken fascination at the
silent thing before him.

Then he passed one shaking hand across his forehead in a dazed manner.

“What have I done?” he muttered in a strange voice. “What have I done?”

His eyes traveled slowly to the blood-stained cleek, and with a shudder
he hurled it from him into the woods.

“I’ve killed him!” he gasped hoarsely. “What shall I do? Where shall I
go?”

Suddenly he raised his head and listened intently. Was that the sound
of voices coming from behind the hill yonder? They must not find him
here. He must fly somewhere--anywhere to get away from that horror on
the ground whose ghastly half-closed eyes seemed to be watching him.

In a panic of fear he snatched up his golf bag and, without a backward
glance, sprang into the woods and disappeared.

Presently the crashing of the flying man through the undergrowth died
away and all was still. A gray squirrel poked his head out of the
bushes and, sighting the huddled heap, fled with chatterings of alarm.
Then came the distant sound of talk and laughter from beyond the hill,
and the next moment a small, white sphere came sailing through the air
and landed with a thud on the turf close to the body of Jim Hanlon.

It was as though the thing had roused him, for with a low moan he
stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.

Following the thud of running feet, some one knelt beside him and
raised his head, and the half-conscious boy found himself gazing into
Dick Merriwell’s eyes, full of compassion and concern.

“Who did it, Jim?” he asked quickly.

Then he suddenly remembered.

“Was it Stovebridge?” he questioned eagerly.

Hanlon nodded weakly.

“Which way did he go?”

The dumb boy shook his head.

“You don’t know?” Dick said disappointedly. “Did you find out anything?
Is he the one who ran over Amy?”

Hanlon nodded, and his eyes took on a faint gleam of rage.

“What’s happened?” asked Jack Niles as he hurried up.

Then he saw the boy’s face.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Somebody hit him! What cur would do a thing
like that?”

The Yale man looked up at him, and his dark eyes were cold and icy.

“Our friend Stovebridge is the man,” he said in a tense voice.

“What?” Niles cried in utter amazement. “Stovebridge! The cowardly
hound! But what reason----”

“I rather think it was because Hanlon found that Stovebridge was the
man who ran over his sister,” Dick explained quietly. “They must have
had an altercation, and this is the result.”

Overcome with amazement, Jack Niles listened to Merriwell’s brief
explanation; and when the Yale man had finished the other’s face was
dark with rage. Roger Clingwood had come up with Buckhart and Tucker in
time to hear it.

“The scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “I’ll have him run out of the club for
this.”

“Out of the club and into jail!” supplemented Niles fiercely. “The
child may die at any moment, I hear.”

“The thing is to catch him,” Clingwood said anxiously. “No doubt after
this, he’s run away.”

Jim Hanlon staggered to his feet with Dick supporting him.

“I think I can catch him,” the Yale man said quietly. “Look after
Hanlon, will you, Brad.”

Buckhart stepped over and took the dumb boy’s arm, and without a word
Merriwell turned and sprang into the woods, Niles following close at
his heels.

Almost at once he found the bloody cleek and, a few feet farther on,
came upon the bag of golf sticks, which Stovebridge had thrown aside in
his haste. Then, with what seemed to Niles almost superhuman skill, the
Yale man picked up the trail of the fleeing scoundrel, and followed it
on a run. His lame ankle was forgotten; he betrayed not the slightest
limp.

To one of Dick’s training, trailing was a comparatively easy matter in
the woods, where broken twigs, bruised leaves, and bent branches of
the bushes marked the way clearly. But when they emerged from among
the trees to the close cropped sward of the links again, he scarcely
lessened his speed. It seemed as though he knew almost by intuition
which way the man had gone.

Very soon Niles fell behind. For all of his condition he was beginning
to be winded, while his companion showed no signs whatever of even
hurried breathing.

Rapidly the distance between them increased as Merriwell forged ahead,
and presently he vanished over a high knoll, leaving Niles to plod on
alone, gasping and breathless, but determined not to give up.

At last he reached the summit and there he paused with an exclamation
of satisfaction.

A perfectly straight stretch of green was spread out before him. It
was over a mile in length, and by far the longest hole of the course.
Though there were several slight undulations, it was for the most part
quite level, being broken here and there with grassy bunkers placed to
make the hole more difficult.

About half way down the stretch a party of golfers had stopped their
play and were staring in astonishment at the strange sight of two young
fellows tearing over the grass as hard as they could run. The one
in advance was Stovebridge, who ran desperately as though his life
depended on it. His face was white and set, his breathing labored, his
eyes full of a great fear.

A hundred yards behind him Dick Merriwell was covering the ground at
an amazing speed. Apparently unhampered by golfing clothes or bandaged
ankle, he ran lightly and easily as though on the cinder track. It
seemed to the excited Niles on the hill top that he almost skimmed over
the ground like a bird.

“Jove, what running!” he cried aloud. “Oh, I wish I had a watch! I
never saw anything like it on the track. There can’t be eighty yards
between them now; he’s gained twenty in a couple of minutes. Stove must
be getting winded. There! What a jump! He took that bunker like a bird.
Stove had to climb over it. What a hurdler he must be! Another five
yards gained.”

For a moment he stood silent, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Another bunker!” he cried presently. “Merriwell is a perfect wonder.
He’s as fresh as when he started. Great Scott! I never saw anything
like this in all my life.”

Niles was fairly jumping up and down in his frenzied excitement.

“Go it! go it!” he cried. “Stove’s all in. Only fifteen yards more. Why
didn’t I bring a watch? He’s making a record! Go it, Dick! Ten yards
more--eight! Oh, why isn’t there somebody else here to see this! He’s
got him! He’s got him!”

Fairly shrieking out the last words, Jack Niles plunged down the
slope, his arms waving like an erratic windmill, and ran toward the
two men who stood together at the far end of the course. One, cool and
fresh, his breath coming a little unevenly, stood with his hand on
the shoulder of the other, who was exhausted to the verge of collapse,
breathing with great gulping gasps, unable to get enough air into his
lungs. His whole frame trembled, and his guilty eyes, unwilling to meet
the stern, accusing ones of the man before him, were fixed upon the
ground.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BRAND OF FEAR.


It was not a lively party that approached the clubhouse half an hour
later. Merriwell had turned his captive over to Roger Clingwood and
Jack Niles, and was devoting his attention to the dumb boy, who had so
far recovered as to be able to walk with very little assistance.

Brose Stovebridge looked like another man. With dragging feet and
eyes fixed on the ground, he was the picture of guilt as he slouched
along between the two other clubmen. Roger Clingwood’s eyes, wearing a
mingled expression of anger and humiliation, were set straight ahead,
as though he could not bring himself to look at the fellow who had
so disgraced his club. The homely, honest features of the other man,
showed only a fierce contempt. Behind them straggled the curious party
of golfers who had witnessed that extraordinary race.

As they approached the veranda, a tall, well-built fellow with bronzed
face and pleasant gray eyes, stepped forward from the group assembled
by the door.

“Hello, Niles,” he said, holding out his hand. “Awfully sorry I
disappointed you yesterday, but it couldn’t be helped. I’m ready to run
your champion to-day, though.”

“Glad to see you, Layton,” Niles said warmly. “I don’t know----”

Roger Clingwood’s cold, cutting voice interrupted him:

“We have no champion, Mr. Layton. Mr. Stovebridge will soon be no
longer a member of the club.”

A gasp of astonishment went up from the listening members, and a
feeling of utter desolation and despair swept over Stovebridge, who
turned his back swiftly on the veranda.

“And if he were a member,” supplemented Niles, “he would no longer be
champion. Dick Merriwell holds that honor at present. I have no doubt
he will race you any time you wish.”

A look of pleased surprise flashed into Layton’s face as he caught
sight of Dick for the first time, and, stepping forward quickly, he
took the Yale man’s hand.

“Awfully glad to see you, old fellow,” he said warmly.

Then he turned to Niles.

“A race between us would be pretty much of a farce,” he smiled.
“Apparently you don’t know him as well as I do. If there’s one fellow
I’ll pull my colors to, it’s Merriwell of Yale.”

Roger Clingwood stepped forward and touched Niles’ arm.

“Take him upstairs and lock him in the end bedroom while I telephone
the police,” he said in a low tone. “Much as I loathe the fellow,
there’s no reason why he should be put to needless humiliation.”

With the disappearance of the two into the clubhouse, a perfect
Bedlam of eager, breathless questions were flung at the other men
of the party, and, as the story was briefly told, exclamations of
amazement, contempt and scorn arose on every side. Some of the men
were even incredulous. It did not seem possible that the dashing,
debonair Stovebridge, one of the most popular of their number, and the
best all-around athlete in the club, could have been guilty of such
behavior; but they were at length convinced, and Roger Clingwood was
urged to lose no time in summoning an officer to take him into custody.

As Brose Stovebridge crossed the threshold of the bedroom, his
self-control snapped like a broken thread and he flung himself face
downward on the bed, uttering a gasping cry of despair. Lying there,
shaken with dry, racking sobs, he thought of the little child whose
life had been the penalty of his recklessness. There was no doubt in
his mind that she had died, and for the first time in his life the
thought of his own troubles was swallowed up in the agony of that
greater wrong he had done another.

Jack Niles gazed down at the man who had once been his friend, and his
first feeling of infinite contempt gradually changed to pity. The man
was suffering--suffering keenly; and Niles did not like to see any one
suffer.

“Brace up, Stove,” he said roughly, but with kindly intent. “Take your
medicine like a man. There’s no use crying over spilt milk.”

A shiver went through the other’s frame.

“It’s spilt--blood--I’m thinking about,” came in muffled gasps.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and faced Niles. His eyes were full of
unutterable despair; there were traces of tears on his cheeks, his
hands clenched and unclenched ceaselessly.

“You won’t believe me, Jack,” he said in a strange, unnatural voice,
“but I’m not thinking about myself, I don’t care what they do to me.
It’s the idea of that little child, dead--killed by my own hand as
surely as though I had shot her through the heart--that’s driving me
mad.”

Niles opened his lips to speak and then closed them again. It was not
up to him to tell Stovebridge that, so far as he knew, the child was
not dead. She might have died that morning--they had been expecting it
all night--and it would be cruel to raise any false hopes.

So he muttered a few rough words of sympathy and, closing the door,
locked it on the outside.

His heart sank as he walked out on the veranda and saw the rugged face
of little Amy’s father. The child must be dead, and he was telling
Clingwood the sad news. He pressed up to the two.

“An’ so he says there ain’t any more fear of her dyin’,” the man was
concluding. “She’ll be all right as soon as thet arm o’ hers gits well.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Clingwood, his eyes brightening. “I can’t tell
you how glad I am.”

Niles had heard enough. The child was not likely to die, and he hurried
over to Dick Merriwell.

“Say, Dick,” he began hesitatingly, “Stove is pretty near crazy up
there with the idea that he has killed the little girl. Now, Hanlon
says she’s going to get well after all. Don’t you think you ought to
tell Brose? He’s given up thinking about himself and says he don’t care
what they do to him; but he’s just about wild with remorse. I hate to
think of a fellow suffering the way he is.”

The Yale man hesitated for an instant, and then his face cleared.

“Why, yes, I’ll tell him,” he said readily. “If he were only thinking
of the consequences to himself, it would serve him right to be kept
guessing; but, as it is, that would only be needless cruelty.”

He turned quickly and disappeared into the house.

Upstairs, Brose Stovebridge was pacing up and down the room in a
frenzied manner. His eyes were wild and his brown hands trembled as
he lifted them now and then in an aimless fashion to his ghastly, set
face.

“A murderer!” he muttered, in a strained voice. “Twice a murderer! I
never thought of it in that light the other time.”

He stopped in front of the mirror and gazed fixedly at the reflection
of his strangely altered face.

“What are you made of?” he whispered hoarsely--“what can you be made
of to do the things you’ve done and not to care? Is there no soul, no
conscience--nothing to make you care?”

He turned away from the glass, laughing harshly.

“Nothing there--nothing but a horrible face!”

Then fear seemed to grip him and drive remorse away.

“They’ve sent for the police!” he gasped wildly. “They’ll be here
soon and drag me away. The jail, a barred cell, the courtroom full
of scornful, grinning faces that were once my friends! And then--and
then--perhaps, the electric chair!”

His voice sank to a vibrant whisper, and at the last words he caught at
his collar like one choking.

“I can’t stand it!” he muttered. “I’m--afraid!”

Suddenly he stood erect and listened. Some one was coming upstairs. He
crouched by the window, his white face turned breathlessly toward the
door. Now they were coming down the hall. Another moment the key would
turn, the door would open, and they would drag him away to prison. He
shuddered.

“I can’t stand it,” he muttered--“I won’t stand it!”

Summoning all his resolution, he slipped through the window and hung by
both hands. As the key clicked in the lock, he dropped to the ground,
staggered, regained his footing with an effort, and then ran across the
drive toward the automobile sheds.

He did not see Dick Merriwell’s head appear at the window and then
quickly disappear. He did not know that he was flying from his own
salvation. His one desperate thought was to get away.

He reached his car and, cranking the engine with feverish haste, sprang
into the seat and swiftly backed her out. With a sharp turn, he went
through the gears with a rush and started the car out of the club
grounds at top speed.

As he dashed by the end of the veranda a yell arose:

“Stop him! Stop him!”

Several men ran out, waving their arms, but it was of no avail. He
disappeared down the drive like a streak of light.

Merriwell, Niles and several others ran back for their cars to give
chase; and as the fellow with the homely face and honest eyes bent to
crank his engine, he shook his head seriously.

“He’s crazy,” he muttered to himself--“clean daffy. If something don’t
happen pretty quick, I miss my guess.”

It was a long, long time before the jolly, happy-go-lucky Niles could
thrust out of his mind the picture of that face--set, strained, and
ghastly white, the eyes wide open and glittering with a strange light,
the colorless lips parted over the clenched teeth. It was a face which
bore the brand of fear; the face of one going to destruction.

Stovebridge whirled out of the club gates into the highroad, skidding,
barely missing the ditch; but he did not pull down the speed a hair.
Down the road he went, a blurred streak of red. He must get away. He
would not be caught.

Presently he turned onto a narrower road which led over the hills into
the more unsettled country. He knew they would follow him, and he meant
to give them a long chase.

The road wound up hill and down dale, through farming country and
wheat fields, with now and then a stretch of woods or meadow land. Once
he flashed past a farmhouse where a woman stood drawing water from an
old well, and as she caught a fleeting glimpse of his face, she gave a
cry of horror and gazed after the thick cloud of dust, her hand lifted
to her heart. The brand of fear was very plain.

On went the car like a flying monster. The man was pushing her to the
utmost, and she responded nobly. They were nearing the river which he
meant to cross by an old, unfrequented bridge close beside a deserted
mill. He would fool them all, for few knew of the crossing which cut
off several miles on the way to the wilder country beyond. He had not
been that way himself in many months, but he knew it perfectly.

Up a steep hill he flew on the high, flashed over the level summit,
and began the rough, winding descent. He was driving recklessly, but
with splendid skill. A little grove of trees blurred past, and then he
reached the river bank.

Too late he saw that he had blundered.

The bridge was gone!

Following a grinding shock of the emergency, the car shot through
the frail protecting timbers at the brink, and, for one brief, awful
instant, seemed to hover in the air above the river.

With a tremendous splash, it struck the water and sank beneath.

By some strange freak of chance, Stovebridge had been flung free of the
entangling car, and presently, dazed by the shock, he struggled to the
surface and strove to reach the shore.

But the current was very swift, and something seemed to drag him down.
Still he struggled frantically. He must reach it. He did not want to
drown. He was afraid to die, as he had been afraid of many things in
life.

His arms grew numb and his legs seemed to have no feeling left. If he
could only loosen the weight which dragged him down! It was as though
hands were clutching him and pulling him slowly but inexorably below
the surface.

Finally into his numbed brain came the thought that they were really
hands--the hands of the child! Ah, well, it was only justice that the
weak fingers of the little one he had murdered should have grown strong
enough to draw him to his destruction.

He was tired. If he could only give up and cease to try. But he did not
want to face the child down in the deep, cold river. The water washed
over his face and he struggled weakly to raise his head, but could not.
In his ears there was a distant roaring which grew louder and louder.
The dragging hands were very heavy. Why not stop battling and let it
go? Life was not worth the effort. His arms dropped feebly and a sense
of infinite rest and peace stole over him.

The roaring ceased.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE YOUNG MAN IN TROUBLE.


When Dick and his friends left the Clover County Club, to continue
their trip, Forest Hills was their next scheduled stopping place.

“Try the Burlington,” said Roger Clingwood, as he bade the party
good-by; “the restaurant is the best in the place.”

Following Clingwood’s advice Dick and his friends had gone at once to
the Burlington, and after removing the stains of travel, sought the
dining room.

As the head waiter spied them, he conducted them to a round table near
one of the open windows and drew out the chairs with a flourish.

As soon as they were seated, Tucker reached for the menu.

“Well, let’s get this struggle over with,” he remarked, as he ran his
eye down it. “I eat from a sense of duty. Hotels must be supported.
Mere grub is repugnant to me, but I have to go through the motions.”

Buckhart looked at Dick and lowered one eyelid.

“Catch on to his order, pard,” he murmured.

At that moment the waiter approached with pad and pencil.

“What are you going to have, Tommy?” Dick asked. “Don’t torture
yourself too severely.”

The little fellow’s brows were knitted in deep thought.

“H’m! A little _consommé_ to start with, I think. That ought to taste
pretty good on a warm day like this. Then--let me see. A _filet mignon_
sounds right. Potatoes come with it, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” nodded the waiter.

“Lima beans and green corn will do for the other vegetables. Follow
that with a lettuce salad; and, for dessert, sliced peaches with a
portion of vanilla ice cream. That’s about all, except that I want a
pot of coffee with cream brought with the filet.”

He sat back in his chair and unfolded his napkin with an air of much
satisfaction.

“Looks like you got a rake off from the management,” the Texan grinned.

“Aren’t you the real clever thing to guess it,” returned Tucker. “How
else do you suppose I make expenses? These hotel proprietors are only
too glad to give a little bonus to a good-looking chap like me. Gives
tone to the establishment, you know.”

Merriwell gave his order and then, sitting back, glanced casually
around the room. It was well-filled with the usual crowd of business
men, among whom were a few ladies in light summer dresses, and a
pleasant air of refinement pervaded the establishment.

Presently Dick noticed a party of three young fellows who were lunching
at a table in the centre of the room. One of them faced him--a
pleasant-looking, well set up man of about twenty-two, with clean-cut
features and curly, brown hair; and, as the Yale man glanced at him, he
hastily averted his eyes as if he had been staring.

“I suppose there isn’t any chance of going through the mine this
afternoon,” Dick remarked, turning back to his friends. “Clingwood
said the morning was the best time. We can put in the rest of
the day looking the town over, and after dinner I’ll hunt up
the superintendent, Orren Fairchilds, and give him that card of
introduction.”

“I think I’ll take a rest,” yawned Bigelow. “The roads were awful this
morning. I’m black and blue all over from being jounced around.”

“Hear him talk!” jeered Tucker. “He’s so packed with blubber, you’d
have to jab something into him a good two inches before he could feel
it.”

Dick glanced over at the other table again and met the curly haired
fellow’s eyes fixed squarely on him. One of his companions had half
turned and was also regarding the Yale man intently.

“They’re certainly going to know me the next time they see me,” he
thought. “I wonder if I have ever met them before.”

He decided that he had not. Endowed with an extraordinary memory, he
never forgot a face, and those two were totally strange.

The next moment he was surprised to see the brown-haired man rise from
his table and come across the room toward him.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, pausing beside Dick’s chair; “but isn’t
your name Merriwell--Dick Merriwell?”

There was a slightly puzzled look on Dick’s face.

“It is,” he answered. “But I don’t remember----”

“No, of course you don’t,” the other interrupted with an embarrassed
smile. “You’ve never laid eyes on me before; but I’ve seen Merriwell
pitch several times, and the minute you came into the room I was sure
you were he.”

He hesitated for an instant, and Dick waited quietly for him to
continue.

“I’m the captain of the Field Club nine here in Forest Hills,” the tall
fellow went on presently. “Our big game--the game of the season--is
scheduled for to-morrow, and our battery is beastly weak, especially
Morrison, the pitcher. I thought--I wondered whether it would be
possible for you to come out to the grounds this afternoon and give us
a pointer or two. I--I know I’ve got nerve, but that game means a lot
to us. My name is Gardiner--Glen Gardiner.”

Merriwell’s heart warmed to this frank, pleasant-voiced young fellow,
who was so obviously embarrassed at the favor he had ventured to ask;
and, as Gardiner finished speaking, the Yale man rose quickly to his
feet and held out his hand.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Gardiner,” he said heartily. “You’re
not nervy at all. I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can. We
were just wondering how we could put in the afternoon. I’d like you to
meet my friends, Brad Buckhart, Tommy Tucker, and Bouncer Bigelow.”

Gardiner’s face glowed with pleasure as he shook the Texan’s hand.

“I’ve seen Mr. Buckhart before,” he said quickly; “and I’m very happy
to meet you all. You have no idea, Mr. Merriwell, how much I’ll
appreciate your coming out and coaching us.”

“Better wait until you’ve seen how I can coach before you thank me,”
Dick smiled. “Won’t you bring your friends over and lunch with us?
There’s room enough at this table, and we can get some more chairs.”

“Thank you very much, but we’ve just finished,” Gardiner said. “I know
they’d be awfully pleased, though, to sit here while you eat yours.”

He went back to his own table and returned with the two men, whom he
introduced as Ralph Maxwell and Stanley Garrick. The former played
shortstop on the nine and was short and wiry, with red hair and
freckles. He was not unlike Tucker in looks and manner, and the two
took to each other at once. Garrick, who played second, was tall and
rather ungainly, with a noticeable deliberation of speech and manner.
To the casual observer, he seemed slow and clumsy, but on the diamond
he was anything but that.

They were both delighted to meet the Yale men, and, drawing up some
chairs, made themselves comfortable while the latter began on the
luncheon which had just appeared.

“Who is it you play to-morrow?” Dick asked, as he took up his knife and
fork.

“The Mispah team--the mine boys,” exclaimed Gardiner. “They’ve got a
crackajack nine this year and have licked everything they’ve been up
against, so far. We have a pretty good organization ourselves, and
we’ve won every game we’ve played. So you can see that it will be
a hard fight from start to finish. If we win, we’ll hold the state
championship.”

Dick nodded.

“I see; but how does it come that these mine fellows are so good? They
don’t generally amount to much at scientific baseball.”

“It’s on account of Orren Fairchilds, one of the mine owners,” Gardiner
answered. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“Yes, I have. But I didn’t know he was one of the owners. I thought he
was the superintendent.”

“He’s both. He also happens to be one of the greatest baseball
enthusiasts in the country. Before he went into mining, he played on
one of the big-league teams, and he’s still a crank over the game. He
got together the most promising of the young fellows in the mine and
practically taught them the game from start to finish--spent months
coaching each man separately and the whole nine together. He hardly ate
or slept during that time, and, as a result, he’s got a crowd that he
boasts can lick anything in the country outside the big leagues.”

“He must be all to the good,” Dick said, smiling. “He’s a man after my
own heart, and I shall be much interested in meeting him to-night.”

“You have an appointment?” queried Gardiner.

“No; a card of introduction from a mutual friend,” Merriwell returned.
“We are anxious to go through the mine to-morrow, if possible.”

“You’d better be at his house before seven to-night, then,” Gardiner
said. “He has dinner at half-past six, and the minute he’s through he
goes up to the diamond he’s laid out near the mine, where the boys
practice until dark.”

“Much obliged for the advice,” Dick smiled. “I’ll be there on the dot;
for our only reason for coming to Forest Hills was to see the mine.”




CHAPTER IX.

A DISGRUNTLED PITCHER.


“What seems to be the matter with this pitcher of yours?” Merriwell
asked a little later.

“Poor control,” Gardiner answered briefly. “He’s got excellent curves,
but he’s wild. Some days he is fine, especially if we have things our
own way from the start. But let the other side get a few hits off him
to begin with, and he seems to go all to pieces.”

Dick took out his pocketbook, and selecting a bill, handed it to the
waiter.

“That’s a bad fault,” he commented. “Curves are no earthly use unless a
man can control them. Does he use his head?”

Gardiner hesitated a moment.

“Well--sometimes,” he said slowly. “I hate to knock a man, especially
a fellow I don’t like, but you can’t very well help us much unless you
know all about him. Morrison’s great trouble is a case of abnormally
swelled head. Up to a month ago we had another pitcher we could fall
back on. He didn’t have many fancy stunts, but he was steady, and in
the long run he made a better record than Morrison. But he had to leave
town, and since then Edgar seems to have the idea that he’s the whole
team and that we can’t get along without him. He’s a great masher,
and when he’s on the slab he spends more time thinking how he can
make a hit with the girls in the grand stand than in preventing the
batters from making a hit in the box. We’ve had several run-ins on that
account, but there’s no reasoning with a fellow like that. I freely
confess that, personally, I don’t like him; but I hope that fact hasn’t
made me unfair.”

He looked questioningly at Ralph Maxwell.

“It hasn’t,” the latter declared quickly. “You haven’t been hard enough
on him. The fellow doesn’t make any pretense at training. There’s
hardly a night that he isn’t to be found at Dolan’s Café on Front
Street. I don’t mean that he gets jagged, but he certainly drinks and
smokes a lot there; and you can’t tell me that a fellow can play good
ball when he spends his time that way.”

Dick picked up his change from the silver tray the waiter had just laid
in front of him, and they all arose and started for the door.

“You’re up against a hard proposition,” said Merriwell. “It’s always
difficult to do anything with a man like that. They usually resent
advice and never by any chance follow it. How is your catcher?”

“Fine!” declared Gardiner enthusiastically. “Burgess is a great pal of
Morrison, but he’s all to the good. More than once he has pulled Edgar
out of a hole and saved the day.”

“A good catcher is worth his weight in gold,” Merriwell said, with a
sidelong glance at Buckhart, who appeared deaf.

“Let’s go out this way,” he went on. “I thought we would use the car
this afternoon, so I left it at the side entrance.”

As they went down the steps, Maxwell and Garrick started to walk away.

“See you on the field,” the former called back.

“Hold on,” Dick said quickly. “Aren’t you going right over there?”

“Yes; but----”

“Well, come along with us, then,” the Yale man invited, as he slipped
in the coil plug. “There’s room enough for everybody, if you don’t mind
crowding.”

The two fellows came back and squeezed into the tonneau with Tucker
and Bigelow, who had given up his idea of taking a nap. Dick cranked
the engine and took his seat at the wheel, Gardiner beside him. The
Texan sat on the side of the car with his feet hanging out.

The Field Club was situated in the residential part of town and covered
a good deal of ground. Besides the diamond, there was a good nine-hole
golf course, excellent tennis courts, and a simple, attractive and
well-arranged clubhouse. This last was built at one side of the
diamond, so that the club members could enjoy the game from the wide
veranda, which completely surrounded the house, quite as well as the
spectators in the grand stand.

Under Gardiner’s direction, Dick drove the _Wizard_ through the
entrance and up to the veranda, where a number of young fellows in
baseball suits were congregated.

“Hello, Glen,” one of them called out, as the party came up the steps.
“We’d about given you up. Thought you were lost, or something.”

“It’s about time you showed up,” another said rather sharply. “Practice
ought to have begun half an hour ago. I’ve got a date at five o’clock,
which I propose to keep.”

He was a tall, dark, rather good-looking fellow, who was evidently
quite aware of the fact, and as he spoke his full, red lips were curved
in a slight sneer.

Gardiner flushed a little at the other’s tone, but otherwise paid no
attention to it.

“I know that, Morrison,” he said pleasantly; “but I guess we can make
up the lost time. Fellows, I want you to meet Dick Merriwell, the
famous Yale pitcher, who has been so good as to say he’d coach us a
little for the game to-morrow.”

A suspicious gleam flashed into Morrison’s eyes as he extended a
languid hand.

“Glad to meet you,” he drawled. “Merriwell, did you say? You go to
Yale, do you?”

This assumption of ignorance was affectation, pure and simple. The
Forest Hills pitcher knew perfectly well who Dick Merriwell was, but he
thought it might irritate the Yale man if he pretended never to have
heard of him.

It had, however, no such effect.

“Yes, I happen to,” Dick said good-naturedly, as he shook the fellow’s
hand, and turned to meet the other men.

“You fellows go ahead and start practice,” Gardiner said, when the
introductions were complete. “I’ll slip into my clothes and be with you
in half a jiffy.”

He disappeared into the clubhouse, and the others left the veranda and
walked out to the diamond. Merriwell was chatting with the catcher,
George Burgess, a short, stout heavily built fellow with a good-humored
face and small, twinkling eyes.

“Gardiner tells me you’re up against a hard proposition to-morrow,” the
Yale man remarked.

“Yes, the mine boys are a tough crowd to beat,” Burgess returned. “But
I guess we can do it.”

He slipped his mask on and began to buckle his chest protector.

“Let’s see how your wing is to-day, Edgar,” he called. “One of you
fellows stand up here and be struck out. You’re all ready, Art. Come
ahead.”

Arthur Dean, a well-built, muscular fellow who played third, picked up
a bat and walked over to the plate.

Morrison went into the pitcher’s box, a sullen look on his face.

“I like that fellow Merriwell’s nerve, butting in this way,” he
muttered. “I suppose that fresh Gardiner thinks I need coaching. Well,
he won’t show me very much.”

He tried an outshoot, and was chagrined when it missed the pan by a
good foot and Burgess had to stir himself to get it.

“Wild, Morrie--wild,” the stout fellow said, as he tossed the ball back.

Morrison bit his lips. The next ball was high. It held no speed, but it
passed so far above Dean’s head that Burgess was forced to stretch his
arms at full length in order to pull it down.

He shook his head as he snapped it back.

Then the pitcher sent a speedy one straight over the pan, and Dean
cracked out a clean single toward right field.

Gardiner appeared in time to see this performance, and, though he said
nothing, his face wore an anxious frown.

“I think I’ll get out where I can see his delivery better,” Dick said,
as the captain approached.

“I wish you would,” Gardiner returned in a low voice. “He’s pretty
wild, isn’t he?”

Merriwell nodded and walked out on the diamond, taking a position
behind Morrison, who had just received the ball from the field.

“Now, Reddy, get up to the plate and see what you can do,” Gardiner
directed. “See if you can’t strike him out, Morrie.”

“He can’t do it,” grinned Maxwell, taking a firm grip on his bat. “Bet
you can’t fan me, Edgar, old boy.”

Morrison flushed a little as he toed the plate, his eyes fixed on
Burgess.

The catcher signaled for an incurve, and the next moment Maxwell dodged
back to avoid being hit by the ball.

“I don’t want a present of the base, thank you,” he laughed. “Try
again, Morrie.”

Morrison scowled and whipped a swift shoot, which was entirely too
high. The following two balls were equally wild, and the red-headed
chap tossed his bat to the ground with a grin.

“Told you that you couldn’t,” he said triumphantly.

The lanky Garrick took his place, and, after giving him three balls,
the pitcher sent one straight over the pan, which Garrick promptly
swung at and laced out a hot two-bagger.

“What’s the matter with you, Morrison?” Gardiner said sharply. “What’s
the good of curves if you can’t get them over? You’ve got to take a
brace pretty soon, or we might as well make the Mispahs a present of
the game.”

The pitcher’s face darkened and he controlled himself with an effort.

“There’s no use killing yourself at practice,” he said, with affected
nonchalance. “I’ll be all right in the game.”

“I shouldn’t like to bank on it,” Gardiner retorted, with some heat. “I
could mention a few games in which you were decidedly _not_ all right.
The trouble with you is that half the time your mind isn’t on what
you’re doing. A fellow can’t pitch and think about something else at
the same time.”

Morrison flushed hotly.

“You don’t say so!” he sneered. “Perhaps you’d like your Yale friend to
show me how it’s done. That’s what you brought him here for, isn’t it?”

Gardiner’s chin squared.

“I asked him here to coach us all,” he said quietly. “So far, you seem
to be the one to need it the most.”

Morrison’s eyes flashed and he wheeled suddenly and faced Dick, who was
standing behind him.

“Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give us an exhibition of your skill,”
he said ironically, in a voice which trembled with suppressed anger.
“You pitch, I believe?”

“Occasionally,” Merriwell returned carelessly; “but I doubt whether I
can be of any assistance to you. Your curves and speed seem to be all
right. A man can only acquire good control by constant practice and
unremitting attention to the game.”

The ball came bounding across the diamond from the field, and leaning
over, Morrison scooped it up and tossed it to the Yale man.

“Sounds good,” he sneered. “Just show us a few.”

He folded his arms, an ugly look on his face, and stepped back, while
Dick took off his coat and rolled up his right sleeve, exposing an arm
of such perfect development that even the man whose place he had taken
could not suppress a feeling of envious admiration.

Gardiner picked up a bat and stepped to the plate; the catcher crouched
and gave a signal, which Dick recognized as the call for a drop. As the
ball left Merriwell’s fingers, it seemed that it would pass above the
first baseman’s shoulders. Too late the latter saw it take a sudden
downward shoot and plunk into the catcher’s big mitt.

“Gee! that’s a dandy,” Gardiner exclaimed, as Burgess tossed the ball
back.

The next one was a beautiful outcurve which cut the corner of the
plate, though the batter had not thought it possible for the ball to
pass over any part of the pan. He planted his feet firmly, a little
frown on his face. Though he knew Merriwell was giving Morrison an
object lesson, he did not propose to be fanned by the Yale man if he
could help it.

Dick placed his feet and rose on his toes for a moment. Backward he
swung, poised upon one pin, his left foot lifted high above the ground.
Forward he threw his body with a broad, sharp swing of his arm, and
the ball came sizzling over the inside corner of the rubber, Gardiner
missing cleanly.

A murmur of astonishment and admiration went up from the little group
which stood near the plate. To have their heaviest hitter struck out by
the first three balls pitched was something the members of the Forest
Hills nine had never expected to see. Gardiner threw down his bat with
a little grimace of disgust.

“That’s some pitching,” he said. “I haven’t had that happen to me in
many moons. Now, Edgar, suppose you see what you can do.”

But Morrison was walking rapidly toward him from the pitcher’s box, his
hands clenched and his face dark.

“You can’t make a monkey out of me,” he snarled. “I’m through.”

Gardiner looked at him in amazement.

“Do you mean you won’t pitch to-morrow?” he asked.

“Neither to-morrow nor any other day,” snapped Morrison. “Nothing would
hire me to pitch on this team after the dirty trick you’ve played
bringing a fellow in to make a show of me. Think I’m a fool?”

Gardiner flushed hotly.

“Nobody could make a fool of you,” he said, with sarcastic emphasis.
“You seem to have been born that way.”

The angry man disdained any reply.

“Any of my friends will have to choose now between Gardiner and me,”
he went on furiously. “If they prefer playing on his team, well and
good; but at that moment they cease to be my friends. Understand?”

He cast a significant glance at George Burgess, and, turning on his
heel, walked rapidly toward the clubhouse.

Burgess hesitated for an instant and, with a shrug of his shoulders,
slowly unbuckled his chest protector and threw it on the ground,
together with his mask and mitt. Then he followed Morrison.

The flush had died out of Gardiner’s face, leaving it a little pale.
His eyes traveled slowly over the faces of the remaining men.

“Well,” he said quietly, “any more?”

Unconsciously, perhaps, he looked at Roland Hewett, the centre fielder,
a slim, fastidious fellow with thin, blond hair and pale blue eyes,
whom he knew was another friend of the deserting pitcher. There was a
worried, undecided look on his weak face.

“I don’t know----” he stammered. “I--I believe I’ll go and see if he
really meant what he said.”

Then he, too, left the group on the diamond and presently disappeared
into the clubhouse.

For a moment no one spoke. Then Reddy Maxwell broke the silence.

“Well, fellows,” he said, with forced cheerfulness, “I should say that
the team is better off without a bunch that will desert it at a time
like this.”

“But how the deuce are we going to fill their places?” Irving Renworth,
the right fielder, asked apprehensively.

“By Jove, fellows. I’m sorry!” Gardiner broke in contritely. “It’s all
my fault. I shouldn’t have talked that way to Morrison, knowing how
touchy he is.”

“Oh, cut that, Glen,” Maxwell said quickly. “It would take a wooden
man to stand Morrie’s nasty, sneering way without answering back. I’m
glad he’s gone, though I am surprised at Burgess backing him up.”

“Yes, don’t worry, Glen,” Garrick said in his deliberate manner. “It
wasn’t your fault. We’ll have to make the best of it, and look around
for some one else.”

The captain ran his fingers despairingly through his thick brown hair.

“We can fill Hewett’s place all right, and we might find a catcher,” he
groaned. “But how in the world do you expect to get hold of a pitcher
in less than twenty-four hours, when I’ve tried in vain to do that very
thing ever since Smith left us a month ago?”

A hand clapped him on the back, and the big Texan’s hearty voice
sounded in his ears.

“Brace up, bucko! You don’t seem to be wise to the fact that you’ve got
a battery complete right on the ground; and, in the field, Tucker can
knock spots out of that quitter. You hear me gently warble!”

Gardiner turned swiftly as though he could scarcely believe his senses.

“What?” he exclaimed. “You mean that you would----”

“That’s sure what I’m trying to express,” Buckhart grinned. “Seeing as
we’re someways responsible for that bunch going on strike, it’ll only
square things up if we take their places. How about it, pard?”

“Of course, we’ll play,” Dick said quickly, “if they want us to.”

A sudden smile flashed into the first baseman’s face.

“Want you!” he cried. “Well, I guess yes! Only I should never have
dared suggest such a thing. Talk about luck! Why, this is the best
thing that could have happened. We’ll give the mine boys the surprise
of their lives, and a minute ago I was thinking of throwing up the
game. Gee! I can hardly believe it’s true.”

Dick looked at his watch.

“We’ve got a couple of hours yet which we may as well put in practicing
a little, don’t you think?” he remarked. “That is, if you can supply us
with togs.”

“Sure thing,” Gardiner returned. “Come in to the house and I’ll fit you
fellows out.”

It was amazing how quickly the anxious, worried looks on the faces of
the Forest Hills boys were replaced by grins of joy, as they realized
their good luck. A few minutes later they were dashing about the field
after flies, scooping up hot liners, or taking turns at the bat with an
enthusiasm and vim which was a marked contrast to the demeanor they had
displayed earlier in the afternoon.

Merriwell became so interested in the practice that he delayed longer
than he had intended. The result was that he had barely time for a
hasty shower in the dressing rooms of the club, which was followed by a
dash back to the hotel where he swallowed his dinner at a speed which
was ruinous to his digestion. Even at that, it lacked only five minutes
of seven when the turned into the drive and stopped the _Wizard_ at the
entrance of Orren Fairchilds’ costly and beautiful residence, in the
most exclusive section of Forest Hills.

“Doesn’t look much like the home of a man who cares for nothing but
business and baseball,” he thought, as he ran up the marble steps and
pushed the electric button.

The door was promptly opened by an impressive butler, who ushered the
Yale man into the drawing room.

“Mr. Fairchilds is at dinner,” he announced, “but he will be through
directly.”

Dick took out the card on which Roger Clingwood had written simply,
“Introducing Richard Merriwell, of Yale,” and handed it to the man.

“Will you give this to him when he has finished,” he requested.

“Very good, sir,” returned the butler. “Will you be seated, sir.”

He took the card and disappeared, while Merriwell dropped into a chair
and glanced around the great room, which was furnished richly, but in
perfect taste.

The next moment some curtains at the other end were thrust violently
aside and a man entered hurriedly.

“Dick Merriwell, as I live!” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched
hand. “You haven’t changed a particle since I saw you twirl years ago
at New Haven. Jove, that was a game! My boy, I’m very glad to meet you.”

He was short and slim, with a brisk manner and springy walk. His thin
hair and heavier moustache were slightly tinged with gray; nevertheless
he certainly was not much over thirty-seven or eight, and with his
healthy brown skin and alert, twinkling brown eyes, he did not appear
even that. Dick took an instant liking for him as he shook his hand
heartily.

“I hope I haven’t interrupted your dinner,” he said. “They told me you
had it early.”

“Not at all, not at all,” returned the mine owner briskly. “I do have
it early. I always make a point of attending the evening practice of
my team. Have you seen Clingwood lately? I haven’t laid eyes on him in
over a year. Does he still play golf?”

Merriwell smiled at the half-contemptuous tone in which he brought out
the last word.

“Yes, he’s an enthusiast. Says there is no game like it.”

“Bah!” snorted Fairchilds. “An old woman’s game. That’s the only fault
I have to find with Clingwood--he doesn’t like baseball. How any sane,
healthy man can stand up and say he isn’t interested in the greatest
game on earth--the only game, to my mind, that’s worth the time and
trouble that’s spent on it--I can’t understand.”

“I hear you’ve got a great team up at the mine,” Dick remarked.

The little man’s eyes sparkled.

“We have--a dandy team,” he said enthusiastically. “They’ve wiped up
the diamond with everything they’ve met this year, and to-morrow I
expect them to win the game of the season with the Field Club nine. Of
course, you’ll be on hand for that?”

Merriwell nodded with a smile. He expected to be very much on hand.

“Say, why can’t you come up to the field with me now and watch the boys
practice?” the mine owner said suddenly. “You’ll see some work that
will surprise you, considering that six months ago the boys knew very
little about the game. Come along; my car’s waiting outside now.”

He rose quickly to his feet.

“I think I’d better not, Mr. Fairchilds,” Dick returned quietly, as he
faced him. “You see, I’ve promised to pitch for the Forest Hills team
to-morrow.”

The sharp little eyes of the older man fairly bulged out with surprise.

“You’ve what?” he exclaimed.

“I’ve promised to pitch for the Field Club fellows,” the Yale man
smiled. “Morrison, their pitcher, and his friend, George Burgess, left
the team in a huff this afternoon. Gardiner asked me to come out and
give Morrison a few points, and the fellow, getting mad at what he was
pleased to call my interference, quit, taking the catcher with him.
Naturally, having been, in a way, responsible, I volunteered to take
his place, and my chum will catch.”

The mine owner dropped back upon his chair.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he exclaimed.

“I hope you don’t disapprove,” Dick said quickly.

“Disapprove! No, of course not. It will make the game all the more
interesting. I never did like that fellow, Morrison, and he can’t pitch
for sour apples. But I must get up and tell the boys about this. We’ll
have to get in all the practice we can to-night. I don’t feel quite so
cocksure of winning as I did a few moments ago.”

He stood up quickly and started for the door, the Yale man at his side.
In the hall he took his hat from the butler, and then stopped suddenly
and looked at Dick.

“I reckon my wife must be right,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “She
says I haven’t got an idea in my head but baseball. Here I’m running
off without ever asking you what I could do for you. You must have had
a reason for coming.”

Merriwell smiled.

“I did have a favor to ask,” he said. “I am very anxious to go through
the mine with three friends, if it’s possible.”

“Why, certainly,” the older man returned briskly. “Delighted to have
you. Come up to the offices to-morrow about nine, and you’ll find me
there. Will that time suit you?”

“Perfectly,” Dick answered. “And I’m sorry to have taken so much of
your time to-night.”

The mine owner laughed.

“I’m right glad you did,” he said, as they went down the steps. “You’ve
given me some valuable information.”

He paused and looked at Dick shrewdly.

“I only wish I’d seen you pitch inside of two years. I expect you’ve
developed a lot of new tricks in that time.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Yale man smiled.

Orren Fairchilds sprang into a big gray car which stood near the steps,
while Dick hurried forward to get the _Wizard_ out of the way. He
sprang into his seat and started the engine, which was still warm, and
as he did so, he heard the voice of the older man behind him.

“Just the same, my boy, don’t think you’ve got a cinch, to-morrow. Good
night.”

“Good night,” Merriwell called back.

The _Wizard_ shot down the drive and into the street, with the gray
car close behind. Dick waved his hand in response to a salute from
the other man, who turned in the opposite direction and quickly
disappeared. Merriwell drove slowly back toward the hotel.

He was much taken with the enthusiastic mine owner, whose simple,
straightforward manner was a pleasant contrast to the airs affected by
some wealthy men he had met.

“You’d never imagine, to look at him, that he was burdened with
overmuch coin,” the Yale man thought. “Yet Gardiner says that he and
his brother are sole owners of the mine, and must have four or five
million a piece. He certainly is a baseball crank, and yet I should
think it would be great fun, if a fellow had plenty of money, to see
how good a team you could make out of ordinary material.”

The Fairchilds’ place was situated at the extreme limits of the city,
and, as Merriwell passed through the residential section, he drove
slowly in order to observe some of the houses and well-kept grounds
along the street.

Suddenly he heard a stifled cry from the sidewalk, causing him to
swerve in toward the curb and slow down to a crawl. The next moment he
saw a young girl trying to free herself from the grasp of a man, and
instantly he jammed on the brake and sprang out of the car.

“Let me go!” cried the girl. “Take your hands off me!”

Her face was flushed and her eyes wide with fright as she strove to
shake the fellow’s hand from her arm. Then she caught sight of Dick.

“Oh!” she exclaimed quickly. “I’m so frightened. Won’t you please make
him go away.”

Almost before the words were out of her mouth, the Yale man sprang
forward and, catching the man’s wrist in a grip of iron, tore it from
the girl’s arm and sent him reeling against the fence.

Then, to his amazement, he recognized the scowling face of Edgar
Morrison, the Field Club pitcher.

“Curse you!” snarled the fellow, advancing with a threatening gesture.
“Butting in again, are you? I’ll teach you to mind your own business!”

Dick laughed lightly.

“Come right along.” he said quietly. “I’m always ready to learn, even
from a cur like you.”

With a furious oath, Morrison lunged forward and attempted to hit
Merriwell; but his blow was parried, and he received a return punch
that sent him reeling.

Uttering a frightened cry, the girl turned and fled down the street.

Morrison was back at Dick in an instant, fairly foaming with rage. He
had quite a reputation in Forest Hills as a fist-fighter, and when he
kept his head he could put up a good, scientific scrap. The Yale man
found no difficulty, however, in parrying his furious, savage lunges,
and presently he got in a straight uppercut on the fellow’s chin which
sent him to the ground with a crash.

Dick stood over the man, waiting for him to rise.

“Anything more you’d like to teach me?” he asked quietly, as Morrison
staggered to his feet and stood swaying, one hand lifted to his chin.

For a moment the other did not speak. Though his ardor for fighting
seemed to have cooled considerably, his rage was apparently unabated,
and mingled with it there was a look of unutterable hate in the fierce
dark eyes, which were fixed on the contemptuous face of the Yale man.

“Not here--not now,” he muttered. “But I’ll teach you a lesson some day
that you won’t forget in a hurry, curse you! I’ll get even with you
yet.”

With a shrug of his shoulder, Dick walked over to the car.

“You’ll have to be quick about it,” he said, as he took his seat at the
wheel. “I don’t propose spending much more time in this town of yours.”

He started to let in the clutch, and then suddenly half turned in his
seat, looking Morrison straight in the eyes.

“One thing more,” he said in a low, cold tone, which held a decidedly
threatening undercurrent. “If I catch you annoying that girl again, or
any other woman, I’ll take great pleasure handing you another bunch of
fives. Understand?”




CHAPTER X.

IN DOLAN’S CAFÉ.


Morrison watched the car disappear down the street, and clenching his
fist, shook it fiercely in the air.

“I’ll get even with you yet, you meddling fool!” he rasped.

He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his bleeding chin. It
was not a bad cut, but the humiliation, of being knocked down in a
public thoroughfare by almost the first blow struck, ate into his very
soul and made him grind his teeth in a blind, bitter rage.

To have suffered at the hands of Dick Merriwell added fuel to the blaze
of his resentment. The happenings of that afternoon had made him hate
the Yale man almost as much as he did Gardiner, whom he had always
disliked, but he had come out of that affair with flying colors. He
had crippled the Forest Hills team so that they would stand no show
whatever against the mine boys; likely they would have to forfeit the
game for it would be impossible for them to find both pitcher and
catcher at so short a notice and his heart rejoiced at having evened up
his score with Gardiner at last.

But on the heels of that triumph came this new disgrace, the very
thought of which made him clench his teeth and long fiercely to have
that Yale upstart at his mercy, somewhere, somehow, so that he could
pound the fellow until his arms were tired.

He had no desire to stand up against Merriwell in a fair fight. Wild
with rage as he had been, Morrison realized that the Yale man had
enough science to handle him with one hand. But he would give almost
everything he possessed to get even with Merriwell in some perfectly
safe way, which carried no risk with it. Of that sort of stuff was the
former pitcher of the Forest Hills team.

He was aroused by the sound of footsteps and, glancing up, saw several
men coming toward him. He did not linger, but hurrying to the near-by
corner, dodged into a side street, and made his way swiftly to the car
lines on Woodland Avenue.

Swinging himself on the rear end of an open car, he sat down in the
shadow. He had intended going directly to Dolan’s Café for a bracer,
but just before the car reached that corner the colored lights of a
drug store caught his eyes, and, leaping off, he went inside.

Here he got some court-plaster which he applied to the cut on his chin,
explaining to the clerk that he had fallen and struck his face on the
curbing. That done, he started for Dolan’s.

Almost at the threshold he came face to face with George Burgess and
Roland Hewett, who greeted him warmly.

“We’ve been looking all over for you, Morrie,” the former said quickly.
“Where the mischief have you been?”

“Oh, up street a ways,” Morrison returned vaguely. “Let’s go in.”

They pushed through the swinging doors, passing the bar, and went on
into a large room beyond, which was the distinguishing feature of
Dolan’s.

The place was long and lofty, with walls and floor of marble, and was
filled with little tables, set around with heavy mission chairs. It was
brightly lit with many electric clusters which brought out in their
full crudity the gaudy decorations and flashy pictures.

But to the cheap sport of Forest Hills, there was nothing gaudy about
it. It represented to him the very acme of luxury, and night after
night he would spend the evening there, with others of his kind, in
talk and loud-mouthed bragging, smoking cigarettes and stretching to
the utmost limit the time allowance of a five-cent glass of beer.

For some vague, inscrutable reason he thought that this was manly. He
never seemed to realize what a poor fool he was to waste his short
leisure hours in that foul atmosphere, poisoning his lungs, his
stomach, and his mind at the same time. He never seemed to know that
a man is not valued for his ability to smoke and drink, but for what
he is--for what he has done that is worth while and uplifting in this
world.

The three fellows sat down at one of the tables, and Morrison touched
the bell.

“What’s the matter with your chin, Morrie?” Hewett asked curiously, as
he settled himself in his chair.

The dark-haired fellow raised his hand carelessly to the court-plaster.

“Oh, that, you mean?” he asked nonchalantly. “I cut myself shaving.”

The waiter appeared.

“What’ll you have, fellows?” Morrison went on. “I’m going to take a rye
high ball.”

“Beer for me.”

The other two spoke together.

Burgess took a box of cigarettes from his pocket and passed them
around. They all lit up, and presently the drinks were brought and set
down before them.

“Have you heard the latest?” Burgess inquired, exhaling a cloud of
smoke.

“What latest?” asked Morrison.

“Why, about the team. It didn’t take Gardiner long to fill out places.”

As Morrison put his glass down on the table, his hand trembled a
little.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

Burgess gave a short laugh.

“He’s got Merriwell to pitch, and that fellow Buckhart to catch.”

“What?” exploded Morrison.

His face had paled a little and he looked as if he could not believe
his senses.

“Yes, that’s straight goods,” Burgess assured. “He’s even filled
Hewett’s place with Tucker, another of that crowd, who, I understand,
has played short on the varsity nine. Not bad for a pick-up, is it?”

For a moment the former pitcher of the Forest Hills seemed unable to
utter a word. His face purpled and his eyes flashed with rage. The
veins on his forehead stood out like cords.

Suddenly he burst out in such a frenzied volley of cursing that his two
companions looked at him in astonishment.

“Say, Morrie, ease up a bit,” cautioned Burgess. “Pretty quick we’ll be
thrown out of here.”

“Yes, what’s the use of losing your temper that way,” put in Hewett
nervously. “The thing’s done, and it can’t be helped now.”

Morrison glared at him.

“Who wouldn’t lose his temper?” he frothed. “You would, if you had a
little more red blood in your veins. It’s enough to drive a man crazy
to have this upstart from Yale step in and get all the credit after
I’ve pitched the whole season and done all the hard work.”

“Now, look here, Morrie,” George Burgess said sharply, “there’s no
sense in cussing Merriwell that way. He’s no more to blame than I am.
After you had stepped out it was only decent for him to volunteer to
take your place, especially when Gardiner’s bringing him out to the
field started the whole row.”

Morrison took a gulp from his high ball and set down the glass with
such violence that some of the liquid slopped over on the table.

“Oh, so you’re going back on me, are you?” he sneered. “Maybe you’d
like to boot-lick Gardiner and get back on the team.”

The stout fellow flushed a little and a dangerous look came into his
small eyes.

“That will about do for you,” he said in a tone of suppressed anger.
“You know I’m no quitter.”

Several men entered the room at that moment, and, as Morrison’s eyes
fell on one of them, he calmed down suddenly.

“There’s Bill McDonough,” he said in a low tone.

Burgess nodded.

“So I see. I wonder what he’s doing here. Old Fairchilds is daffy about
close training.”

The man to whom they referred seated himself at a table near them and
ordered vichy. Apparently one of his companions joked him about the
drink, for he grinned broadly, showing a gaping hole in his upper jaw
where two front teeth were missing.

“You betcher life it won’t be that ter-morrow night,” he said loudly.
“After we’ve wiped up the ground with them dudes, training is broke,
and it’s me for the beer can. Gee! I wisht I could have a schooner
ter-night. I got a thirst a yard long.”

He was a big, burly, rough-looking fellow, with a bull neck and
amazingly long arms. A jagged scar, running from the edge of his
close-cropped, stubby hair almost to the corner of his hard mouth, gave
a sinister expression to his unattractive face. It was not the face of
a man one would care about encountering in a lonely place on a dark
night.

While McDonough did not exactly live up to his tough appearance, there
were yet vague stories afloat concerning him which were not the most
creditable. Nothing had ever been proved against him, but where there’s
smoke, there is usually some fire; and there was a general impression
in Forest Hills that Bill McDonough would allow few things to stand
between him and the accomplishment of a purpose.

He was one of the foremen at the Mispah Mine, the acknowledged leader
of the mine boys, and the star pitcher on Orren Fairchilds’ baseball
team.

There was a speculative look in Morrison’s dark eyes as he watched the
fellow drink his vichy at a gulp and then call for more.

Then a sudden idea flashed into his mind, and he leaned toward his two
companions.

“Say, fellows,” he whispered, “I’ve a good mind to call Bill over and
tell him about this business of Merriwell’s pitching to-morrow.”

Burgess frowned a bit.

“What good will that do?” he asked.

Morrison hesitated for an instant.

“Well,” he said significantly, “you know Bill’s reputation. If he
should pick a fight with Merriwell, or do something equally effective,
Gardiner would be minus a pitcher.”

The stout fellow leaned back in his chair and surveyed his friend
curiously.

“Sometimes you’re one too many for me, Morrie,” he said slowly. “Where
do you get these ideas, anyhow? Would you really think of doing a thing
like that?”

Morrison looked a little annoyed.

“You’re too finicky altogether, George,” he returned. “I shouldn’t be
doing anything out of the way by simply telling McDonough that this
Merriwell is going to take my place in the box to-morrow.”

“Oh, you know well enough what I mean,” Burgess retorted. “What’s your
object in telling him? Because you hope Bill will do something dirty to
prevent Merriwell’s playing.”

“I don’t see anything out of the way about it,” put in Hewett. “It
would be an easy way of getting even.”

The stout chap looked at him contemptuously through narrowed lids.

“Quite your style, isn’t it?” he inquired.

Then he turned to Morrison.

“Go ahead and tell him if you’re set on it,” he said shortly. “But I
wash my hands of the business. I refuse to be mixed up in it.”

He got up from the table, and, without further words, walked to the
door and disappeared.

“George is amusing when he throws one of those virtuous bluffs,” he
said sarcastically.

He glanced over at the other table.

“Say, Bill--McDonough,” he called.

The big fellow looked around quickly.

“Oh, hello, Morrison,” he bellowed. “How’s things?”

“Come over here a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.”

“Sure, Mike.”

McDonough arose and, stepping over to the chair Burgess had just
vacated, plumped himself down.

“Well, what’s up?” he inquired, with a grin.

“What’ll you have--vichy?”

“Sure. I could drink gallons of the stuff without quenching my thirst.”

Morrison beckoned to a waiter and ordered a siphon of vichy, then he
leaned forward with his elbows on the table and surveyed the hulking
giant before him.

“I just wanted to give you a little point about the game to-morrow,”
he said significantly. “Do you know who’s going to pitch?”

“Sure,” grinned McDonough. “Some guy from Yale College.”

Morrison’s jaw dropped.

“Who told you?” he gasped in astonishment.

“Why, the old man. Who else do you s’pose would?”

“The old man!” Morrison exclaimed in bewilderment. “Fairchilds, you
mean? How the deuce did he find out?”

“Give it up. Told us to-night when he come up for practice.”

Morrison was silent for a moment.

“You take it pretty calmly,” he said presently, a morose scowl on his
face.

“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded McDonough. “The old man said he was a
crackajack, but I guess he won’t get much on yours truly.”

Morrison threw back his head and laughed, long and loud.

“Say, you’re pretty cocky, Bill, aren’t you?” he inquired. “I suppose
you think there isn’t a man living that can strike you out. Did you
know that this Merriwell is the best amateur pitcher and all-around
baseball player in the country. The managers of the big-league teams
have had their eyes on him ever since he entered Yale. He could get any
price he wanted this minute, if he’d go into professional ball. Why,
you’ll be easy fruit. He’ll make pie of you and your whole team. There
won’t be any pieces left to pick up. He’ll make a holy show of you
to-morrow unless----”

He hesitated, his eyes fixed curiously on the big man’s face, which
during that short speech had mirrored a variety of emotions that were
passing through the man’s mind. Incredulity, surprise, amazement,
uneasiness, and consternation flitted rapidly across it and finally
gave place to a sinister look of rage which was not prepossessing.

“Say, what yer giving us?” he said hoarsely.

“The truth,” Morrison returned simply. “He’s all I said he was, and
more.”

Taking out his cigarette case, he selected a cigarette, passing the
case to Hewett. Lighting up, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes
fixed keenly on McDonough’s face.

The big man was staring absently at the table, his heavy brows drawn
together in a black scowl. With one square, callous forefinger he
traced a pattern with some vichy which had spilled on the polished
surface. All at once he raised his head and looked fixedly at Morrison,
who gave a slight start at the expression he saw in those sullen orbs.

“Unless--what?” demanded McDonough in a suppressed tone.

Morrison hesitated.

“Unless--well, there’re plenty of ways to stop a man from playing
baseball,” he finished lightly.

For a full minute the two looked at each other in silence. It seemed
that something was passing from one mind to the other. Then the big
fellow arose slowly to his feet.

“Much obliged,” he said shortly.

Without another word he returned to his table, and a moment later
Morrison and Hewett passed out through the bar and into the street.

“I--think--I’ll go home,” stammered the latter. “It’s getting late.”

His weak face was a little pale and his hands shook nervously.

“Well, so-long, Hew,” his companion said carelessly. “See you at the
game to-morrow.”

Left alone, he strolled aimlessly down the street until he came to the
entrance of the Burlington Hotel. There he hesitated for a few moments
and finally went up the steps and into the lobby.

As he did so he gave a sudden start. Across the room, seated sidewise
on a big leather sofa, was Dick Merriwell. His back was toward the
entrance and he was deep in conversation with some one whose face
Morrison could not distinguish.

The sofa was one of those large double ones with a high back between
the two seats, and, almost without realizing why he did it, Morrison
walked softly across the lobby, and sat down on the other side with an
air of affected carelessness.

Merriwell was talking, and Morrison could distinguish the words quite
plainly.

“You never saw such a baseball crank in your life. I don’t believe he
thinks of anything else out of business hours. He says if we come up to
the mine at nine to-morrow he’ll have us shown all around.”

Morrison gave a start and his dark eyes gleamed.

“The mine!” he muttered to himself. “They’re going through the mine
to-morrow, and McDonough’s foreman on the lower level. What a chance!”

Without stopping to hear more, he sprang up and went hurriedly into the
writing room, where he sat down at a small table and drew a sheet of
the hotel paper from the rack.

First carefully tearing off the heading, he picked up a pen and wrote
rapidly. Then he looked around for a blotter, but there was none in
sight.

“Where the deuce do they keep the things?” he muttered angrily.

Finally he jerked open a drawer and found a stack of new ones inside.
He snatched up one of them and carefully blotted the scrawl. Then he
folded the note and put it in his pocket.

“I must get a plain envelope at the stationer’s,” he murmured, “and
then find a boy to take it to Dolan’s before Bill gets away. I rather
think you may have an interesting time at the mine to-morrow, my
friend.”

As Morrison peered out into the lobby, he was dismayed to find that
Merriwell and his friend Buckhart had left the sofa and were talking to
the clerk at the desk. His first instinctive impulse was to dodge back
into the writing room. Then he gave a muttered exclamation.

“Pshaw! What a loon I am! I’ve got as much right in this hotel as he
has, and he’ll never know what I came here for.”

Squaring his shoulders, he stalked toward the entrance, with eyes
averted from the desk, and disappeared into the darkness.

“There goes your friend, the pitcher, pard,” Buckhart grinned. “Wonder
what that varmint’s doing here.”

Dick shrugged his shoulders as he turned away from the desk.

“Give it up, Brad,” he said carelessly. “I don’t know that I care very
much. I want to write a letter to Frank. Will you wait for me, or join
Tommy and Bouncer upstairs?”

The big Texan yawned.

“Sure, I’ll wait,” he said. “Might as well scrawl off a note myself,
since I’ve got the chance.”

They went into the writing room, and each sat down at a small table.
Taking a sheet of paper from the rack, Dick wrote rapidly for several
minutes. He was telling Frank what they had been doing for the past few
days, and, when he had finished that, he stopped to think out their
itinerary for the next week.

“Let’s see,” he murmured meditatively. “We’ll stay here over Sunday,
and start Monday morning. By Monday night we ought to be in----”

He stopped, his eyes fixed curiously on the oblong, white blotter which
lay before him.

“That’s funny,” he said slowly.

The Texan looked up from his letter.

“What is?”

Dick did not answer at once. He picked up the blotter and scrutinized
it closely. It was a fresh one and apparently had been used but once.
Evidently some one had written a short note in a heavy, scrawly hand
with a stub pen, and blotted it in haste. What had attracted the Yale
man’s attention was his own name reversed, which appeared almost at the
top of the blotter.

“This is very interesting,” he said at length. “Somebody seems to have
been taking my name in vain, and I’m a little curious to see what the
connection is.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up, the blotter in one hand. Over
the mantel at the other end of the room was a long mirror, and walking
across to it, Dick held the blotter up to the glass. Buckhart had also
risen and was looking at the reflection over his friend’s shoulder.

“Merriwell,” deciphered Dick slowly; “mine--to-morrow--your
chance--miss--want to put--business--pitch.”

The Yale pitcher turned and eyed his friend quizzically.

“This is decidedly interesting,” he remarked. “Even more so than I
expected. There’s some more words in between the others that are not
very clear, but perhaps we can make something out of them. Get a sheet
of paper and a pencil, will you, Brad?”

The Texan made haste to bring paper and pencil, and, laying the
former on the mantel shelf, Dick studied the blotter carefully again.
Presently he wrote something on the paper and turned again to the
blotter.

He kept this up for ten or fifteen minutes in silence, and at the end
of that time he picked up the paper and carried it back to one of the
desks.

“That’s about all I can make out,” he said, as he sat down and spread
the sheet out before him. “Draw up a chair and let’s see how it reads.”

The Texan pulled a chair up, and they bent their heads over the desk.

What they saw was fairly clear. A few letters were missing, but not
enough to destroy the sense of the letter.

“Merriwell wi--be--mine to-morrow--ni-- ---- ock. --his--s your chance.
--nt miss it--yo-- want to put hi-- --ut of business so--e --an-- pitch
---- nst --ou.”

“That’s as plain as daylight,” Dick said, with satisfaction. “Put in
the few letters which are missing, and it will read like this:

“‘Merriwell will be at the mine to-morrow at nine o’clock. This is your
chance. Don’t miss it, if you want to put him out of business so he
cannot pitch against you.’

“That’s really the most interesting epistle I’ve read in a long time,
old fellow,” Merriwell went on. “Short, and to the point. No address,
no signature. The plot thickens, Bradley, my boy.”

“It sure does, pard--a-plenty,” growled the Westerner. “I’d like to
know the onery varmint that wrote it. I’d make him a whole lot shy
about repeating the performance. You hear me softly warble!”

“I’d rather know who it was written to,” Dick said meditatively. “Then
I’d know who to look out for.”

He looked at Buckhart with a sudden gleam in his eyes.

“Did you notice where Morrison came from when he went through the lobby
a little while ago?” he asked slowly.

The Texan brought his clenched fist down on the desk with a crash that
made the pens and inkwells bounce.

“By the great horn spoon!” he exploded. “He came out of this very room.
The miserable snake in the grass! He ought to be tarred and feathered,
only that’s a heap too good for the coyote.”

Dick smiled quietly.

“I rather thought he might be the one,” he remarked. “It’s the sort of
trick you’d expect from a fellow like that. He’s evidently found out
that we’re going to play to-morrow, and he’s so dead sore that he’s
willing to do anything to prevent it.”

He glanced at the letter again.

“Written to some one in the mine, that’s plain,” he murmured. “Also
some one who plays on their nine. Notice where he says, ‘so he cannot
pitch against you.’ Well, I don’t know that we can glean any more
information by poring over this thing. We’ll have to keep our eyes
open to-morrow at the mine and look out for snags. I’ll just keep this
blotter; we may have use for it sometime.”

He tucked it carefully away in his pocket, together with the
transcription he had made, and resumed his letter. When this was
finished he addressed and stamped it, and, after posting it in the
lobby, the two chums stepped into the elevator and were carried up to
their rooms, where Tucker and Bouncer had retired more than an hour
before.




CHAPTER XI.

THE EXPLOSION.


The Mispah Mining Company of Forest Hills had the reputation of
being one of the best managed, as well as one of the most paying,
propositions of its kind in the State.

Though technically a stock company, it was practically owned by the two
brothers, John and Orren Fairchilds, who were thoroughly up to date in
their methods and believed in giving their employees the benefit of
every possible convenience and comfort.

The natural result was that the men gave them willingly more real work
and good results than they could possibly have secured by the grasping,
driving methods of some more shortsighted business men; labor troubles
were practically eliminated, and everything worked smoothly and in
perfect harmony.

The mine was located in the mountains to the north of Forest Hills. In
fact, that portion of the town, occupied mainly by the miners, with
its rows upon rows of comfortable frame cottages, closely abutted on
the land owned by the company along the level ground at the foot of
the rocky slope, where was situated the large brick office building,
which was used by the officers of the company, their clerks, surveyors,
draftsmen, and civil engineers.

Here were also storehouses, railroad sidings, and a number of other
buildings, which looked almost like a little town in itself, while
behind the office building was the baseball diamond, laid out by the
enthusiastic Orren Fairchilds, with its grand stand, bleachers, and
high board fencing, complete.

Halfway up the side of the mountain, perhaps a thousand feet above the
level, was the main shaft of the mine, with its shaft house, pumping
station and all the infinite details which go to the proper equipment
of a mine. Made of timber cased in sheet iron, well painted, they
seemed to be poised on the side of the mountain like a fly on a wall,
and the stranger always expressed wonderment as to how they had been
built in that apparently inaccessible spot.

Connecting the two levels curved the inclined track, down which shot
cars, filled with ore destined for the smelter, to be carried back
empty, or filled with supplies, shifts of laborers, or any one else who
wanted to go up to the mine. For this was the only way of reaching the
mouth of the shaft.

At five minutes before nine the _Wizard_, with Dick Merriwell at the
wheel, whirled through the open gates which marked the entrance to the
property of the Mispah Mining Company, and drew up before the handsome
office building.

The four Yale men alighted and walked into the main office, where Dick
sent his card in to the mine owner. The office boy returned with a
message that Mr. Fairchilds would be out in a few moments, so they made
themselves comfortable on a heavy oak bench that stood near the door.

In less than ten minutes Dick’s friend of the night before appeared
from his private office, and advanced with outstretched hand.

“Well, well, my boy, how are you this morning?” he said briskly. “I
hope you’re ready for a good sweat. It’s pretty warm down on the lower
level.”

Then his eye fell on Buckhart.

“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “The Yale catcher, or I’ll eat my hat! I
don’t know your name, but I never forget a face.”

“Buckhart,” Dick put in, as the Texan shook the older man’s hand.
“Bradley Buckhart from Texas.”

“Glad to meet you--very glad,” the mine owner said in his sharp,
incisive manner. “Have you brought any more of your team with you,
Merriwell? I foresee that my boys will have to stir themselves to lick
you this afternoon.”

Dick smiled.

“Tommy Tucker, here, sometimes plays short,” he explained. “He’s going
to hold down centre field to-day.”

There was a whimsical look of mock consternation on Orren Fairchilds’
face as he shook hands with Tucker and Bigelow.

“I wish you’d brought the other six along,” he said. “There’d be some
honor in beating the Yale varsity.”

Without waiting for a reply, he ushered them into an adjoining room,
which was fitted up with a number of lockers, and opening one of them
he began to toss out a variety of garments.

“We’ll have to change here,” he explained. “There’d be very little left
of your regular clothes if you went down in them.”

In the course of five minutes all five were arrayed in rough woolen
trousers, flannel shirt, heavy shoes, and felt hats. The transformation
was astonishing. But for the healthy tan on their faces, they might
easily have been taken for a party of laborers, ready for their daily
descent into the mine.

The mine owner then led the way through the office and across the yard
to a platform outside the smelter. Here they climbed into one of the
short, dumpy little ore cars and were borne swiftly up the incline.

It took but a minute to reach the top, where they found, to their
surprise, that there was a good deal more space than they had supposed.

Jumping out of the car, they followed their guide into the pump house
where they gazed in surprise at the huge engines which worked night and
day pumping air into the underground workings, and drawing out through
the ventilation shafts the hot, poisonous vapors from below.

From thence they passed quickly to the shaft house, where two mammoth
hoisting engines of a thousand horse power each operated the cages, of
which there were four, the main shaft being divided into that number of
compartments.

The engineer and his assistant nodded as the chief entered.

“Be one along in a minute, Mr. Fairchilds,” the former said, as he
glanced at the dial before him.

In less than that time, a cage shot up from the shaft and two miners
stepped out. One of them was a big, burly fellow with a long scar on
one side of his face.

“Hello, Bill,” the mine owner called. “After anything important? I want
you to show us around down below.”

The fellow grinned, displaying a void on his upper jaw where two front
teeth were missing.

“Need a little powder, that’s all,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a
jiffy.”

He strode out of the door, and Orren Fairchilds turned to Dick.

“That’s my prize pitcher,” he explained. “Six months ago he knew as
much about baseball as a two-year-old, and I thought he’d never be able
to get a ball over the plate. But he was anxious to learn, and we kept
at it. I’m proud of him now.”

The fellow came back on the run, a package of dynamite sticks swinging
carelessly from one hand. At the sight of them, Bigelow’s fat face
turned pale and he edged away a little.

“My goodness!” he whispered hoarsely to Tucker. “Look at the way he
carries them. What if they should drop.”

“Don’t worry, Bouncer,” Tommy returned, with a nonchalance he was far
from feeling. “It needs a spark combined with the concussion to set it
off.”

“Still, I don’t like it,” complained the fat chap.

The mine owner had paused at the cage door.

“Merriwell, shake hands with my pitcher, McDonough,” he said briskly.
“You two boys will be up against each other good and hard this
afternoon.”

Dick put out his hand promptly, and the miner’s great paw closed over
it with a grip which gave a hint of amazing strength. He looked the
Yale man straight in the eyes, and for a brief instant Merriwell seemed
to read something like a threat which flashed into those dark orbs and
was gone.

“Glad to know you,” McDonough said quietly. “I reckon we’ll try to give
the grand standers the worth of their money.”

He followed Dick into the cage and dropped the dynamite on the floor
with a thump which made Bouncer jump nervously. Then the descent began.

In an instant the floor of the shaft house had vanished and they were
dropping noiselessly into the darkness, lit only by the flickering rays
of the lantern which hung from the top of the cage, showing the timbers
that lined the shaft seemingly leaping upward.

Bigelow caught his breath in a sudden gasp and clutched Tucker’s wrist
convulsively.

Presently the cage passed a large, irregular, well-lighted room opening
back into the rock from the side of the shaft. Men were busy there, and
they could hear the throbbing of machinery at work.

“That’s one of the stations,” explained Fairchilds. “It’s the opening
to one of the intermediate levels, but we won’t stop. I want you to see
the lowest level.”

Down they went. Other stations flashed past at regular intervals until
they had counted seven or eight of them. Presently the cable supporting
the car began to take on a peculiarly disagreeable bobbing motion,
which gave the novices an odd sensation, as though they were hung over
an abyss by a rubber strap, and caused Bouncer to clutch Tucker again
and gasp anew. Then the car stopped and they stepped out onto the floor.

The station of the lowest lift was like all those they had
passed--well-lighted, walled, floored and roofed with heavy planking,
and filled with all sorts of mining supplies. A narrow-gauge track led
from the shaft back into the drift, or tunnel beyond, which was fairly
well lighted by electric globes at intervals along the walls.

McDonough took the lead, and they at once plunged into the tunnel,
which had a barely perceptible upward grade.

“Follows the course of the vein, you understand,” the mine owner
explained, as he pointed out where the ore had been taken out along
one side of the drift. “We’ll get to where they’re working in a few
minutes, and then you can see how it’s done.”

“Look out!” yelled McDonough warningly.

He caught Dick’s arm and drew him back against the wall, the others
following suit, and a moment later a laden ore car flashed past in the
direction of the shaft, and disappeared.

Presently they turned into a crosscut, and a few minutes later they
began to pass small groups of men working at the rock with picks and
bars. Almost without exception they were stripped to the waist,
for the heat had become oppressive, and was growing greater as they
advanced.

They crossed the openings of innumerable small drifts which led out of
the main tunnel, some of which were short, blind tunnels, while others
extended for a long distance, sometimes curving around and returning to
the drift from which they started. It was a veritable labyrinth.

At length they reached a spot where a number of men were loading the
ore cars, and the mine owner stopped.

“This will show you the working as well as any place,” he said, taking
off his hat and mopping his forehead. “You notice that the tunnel runs
along one side of the vein? That’s to prevent caving. The ore is much
softer than the rock through which it runs. You can see for yourselves
how it is taken out with pick and bar. Sometimes we help it along with
a blast.”

While he was talking Dick stepped up to the side of the drift and
looked closely at the vein. It did not look in the least like one’s
preconceived notion of gold ore, but the Yale man had had enough
experience to see that it was good stuff.

“It ain’t as rich here as we struck it a ways back,” said a voice.

And turning, Dick saw McDonough standing at his side.

“Still, I shouldn’t mind having a couple of thousand tons of this ore,”
Merriwell said, smiling.

The big fellow grinned.

“Me neither,” he returned. “But if you’ll step into this here crosscut,
I’ll show you something that’s about three times as good.”

For an instant the Yale man hesitated, thinking of the sinister note
on the blotter. But here in this lighted spot, with men on every side,
there was nothing McDonough could do, even if he was the man to whom
that note was written. Certainly he didn’t propose to let the fellow
think he was afraid.

“Why, yes,” he said quietly; “I’d like very much to see it.”

The rest of the party were busy watching the miners and paid no
attention when Dick turned and followed the brawny foreman about twenty
feet back along the passage and then into a drift which ran at right
angles.

This drift curved so sharply that they had not gone more than a dozen
steps before the entrance was lost to sight. Presently McDonough
stopped and held his candle close to the wall.

“That’s some to the good, I tell you,” he said enthusiastically; “and
it’s better yet further on. We----”

He broke off abruptly and listened.

“Gee! There’s the old man calling!” he exclaimed. “Hold this, will you?
I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

He thrust the candle into Merriwell’s hand and darted back along the
passage. Dick examined the ore with much interest. It certainly was
rich and averaged much more to the ton than that in the outer drift. A
footstep sounded, and looking up, he saw a figure advancing toward him
from the opposite end of the passage. For a moment he thought it was
McDonough, and wondered how he had managed to get around so soon; for
he comprehended at once that the tunnel must have another entrance.
Then the man spoke, and he realized that it was Orren Fairchilds.

“Taking a look at my prize vein, are you?” the mine owner said briskly.
“How did you find----”

A sudden, muffled roar drowned his voice. A cloud of smoke belched from
the wall, and the next instant a huge section of the rock crashed down
into the tunnel, filling it to nearly half its height, and totally
obliterating every sign of the unfortunate man who had stood there.

The cry of horror which Dick Merriwell uttered as he sprang forward,
changed to one of joy when he saw that, instead of being utterly
crushed, Fairchilds had escaped the heaviest part of the fall by a
swift, forward plunge, and was only pinned down by the weight of some
large chunks of rock which had dropped on his legs.

He saw something else, too, which sent a thrill through him and turned
his tanned face a shade less brown.

Directly above the mine owner, a great mass of loosened rock hung
as if suspended by a thread, and as the Yale man glanced up, it
quivered a little. The slightest movement--the vibration of a voice,
perhaps--would send it crashing down on those two beneath. Yet Dick did
not hesitate an instant.

Swiftly sticking the candle upright in a crevice, he bent over the
fallen man and, with infinite caution, began to lift the pieces of ore
from his legs.

Despite the shock he had experienced, Orren Fairchilds was quite
conscious. Lying on his back, his eyes fixed on the tottering mass
which was poised above him, he knew well that death was staring him in
the face, and he appreciated to the full the heroism of the man who was
deliberately risking his own life in what seemed a futile attempt to
save another’s.

He moistened his dry lips.

“You can’t do it,” he whispered. “Leave me. Get back--quickly! Another
moment and it will fall!”

He dared not raise his voice; his eyes never left the trembling rock
above him.

Dick Merriwell made no answer; apparently he did not consider one
necessary. One by one the heavy chunks of rock were lifted up and put
aside.

“Go, I tell you,” repeated the mine owner in that same suppressed tone.
“Why don’t you go? Do you want to be crushed to death?”

The Yale man dashed the sweat from his eyes.

“Do you really think I will?” was all he said.

“No,” breathed the older man. “No, I don’t; but I wish----”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening with horror. The rock was
moving. Slowly, slowly, it crept forward, sending rattling showers of
dust and small stones in its wake.

“It’s coming!” gasped Fairchilds. “It’s moving! For God’s sake save
yourself!”

Abandoning all caution, Dick rolled the last piece of rock from the
fallen man and, catching him in his arms, staggered backward.

There was another crash, louder than the first, as the great mass
plunged downward into the tunnel. Something struck Merriwell on the
right shoulder, hurling him against the wall, and thence to his knees.

Then came the flash of light along the passage, the sound of hurrying
feet, the quick, staccato note of many voices raised in excitement, and
the next instant Dick felt himself caught up in a powerful grasp and
literally carried out of the drift into the main tunnel.

Wrenching himself free, he turned and looked into the face of Brad
Buckhart, drawn, white and horror-stricken, great beads of perspiration
standing out on his forehead.

“You?” Merriwell exclaimed. “I thought---- Thank you, old fellow.”

The Texan drew one sleeve across his forehead.

“By George, pard!” he grunted; “I sure thought you were done for that
time.”

“Where’s Mr. Fairchilds?” Dick asked anxiously. “Did he get out all
right?”

“He did, thanks to you, my boy.”

The mine owner’s voice sounded from the tunnel’s mouth, and the next
instant he appeared, supported by Bill McDonough and another miner.
There were cuts on his head and face, one hand was bruised, and he
could not stand alone; but his eyes were bright and his voice firm.

“By gorry!” he exclaimed. “That was the closest thing I ever saw. I
shall never forget this, Merriwell. Are you hurt?”

Dick smiled.

“None to speak of,” he returned. “Shoulder a little numb, that’s all.”

“Good.”

The monosyllable was snapped out like a pistol shot, and into Orren
Fairchilds’ face came a look which seldom appeared there, and which
those who knew him dreaded. His eyes grew cold and hard and piercing,
and, as he turned slowly from one to another, men dropped their heads,
and with nervously shuffling feet and crimsoned faces awaited in
awe-struck silence the inevitable explosion.

It came.

“Who set off that blast?”

There was a steely menace to the words as they issued from the mine
owner’s set lips.

Not a man spoke. Not one in the circle lifted his eyes. Fear and
embarrassment made them all look equally guilty.

“McDonough!”

Fairchilds withdrew his hand from the foreman’s arm, and the big fellow
took a step forward.

“McDonough, you’re in charge of this level,” snapped the mine owner.
“Who set off that blast?”

The man with the scar moistened his lips with his tongue. His face was
a little pale, but he met his chief’s eyes squarely.

“I don’t know,” he said in a level tone--“so help me, I don’t.”

There was a momentary silence as the bright, steely eyes of the smaller
man seemed to bore into the foreman’s very soul.

“You don’t know?” he rasped. “You must know! A blast can’t be planted
without your knowing.”

The burly giant never hesitated.

“I didn’t know it was planted,” he said in a low tone--“I swear I
didn’t. That’s what I brought the powder down for. If you want to know
what I think, I bet it was meant for me. There’s a lot of fellows
here’s got a grudge agin’ me ’cause they think I drive ’em hard; and I
bet one of ’em put that blast there while I was up above, thinking to
let it off the first time I went in there. When they seen me go in with
Mr. Merriwell, they done the trick.”

“Humph!” snapped Fairchilds. “What made you leave Mr. Merriwell there?”

“I thought I heard you calling me.”

The mine owner looked a little doubtful.

“I did call you,” he said slowly.

He tried to take a step forward, and a twinge of pain crossed his face.

“Get an empty,” he said shortly. “I can’t stand here any longer. I’ve
got to go up.”

His stern eyes left McDonough’s face and traveled swiftly over the
other men.

“But this thing is not going to drop,” he rasped. “I’ll find out who
set off that blast if I have to grill every man in the shift. I’m going
to get at the truth somehow.”

An empty ore car was brought up and the mine owner helped into it. He
was followed by the other members of the party. As McDonough stepped
forward to help Dick into the car, the Yale man looked at him keenly,
searchingly, with narrowed lids. It was the briefest sort of a glance,
but there was something in Merriwell’s eyes which caused the burly
giant to move uneasily and turn away his head.

Dick sprang into the car without assistance. They moved slowly down the
crosscut to the main drift, and were soon back at the station again.

By the time the mine owner’s office was reached, Fairchilds was able to
hobble along without assistance, though he still suffered considerable
pain. He led the Yale men into his private office, where he insisted on
Dick’s taking off his shirt so that his shoulder could be attended to.

Though Merriwell made light of it, there was an ugly bruise where the
piece of rock had struck him, and his whole arm pained him, as if it
had been badly hurt. Fairchilds’ secretary, who was experienced in
looking after such things, painted it well with iodine, after he had
assured himself that there were no bones broken, and cautioned Dick
about taking care of it for a few days, so as not to strain it further.

“Swell chance I’ll have of taking care of it, with a game on this
afternoon,” Dick remarked, as they were changing their clothes in the
small room off the main office.

“Great Scott, pard!” Buckhart exclaimed in dismay. “I’d clean forgot
the game. How in thunder are you going to pitch?”

Dick smiled.

“Be a south paw, I reckon, if I find the other wing won’t stand the
racket.”

“But can you swing a bat?” Tucker put in anxiously.

“I hope so,” Merriwell said quietly. “It’s not so bad as all that, and
it will be much easier this afternoon. Don’t worry, Tommy; we’ll get
through somehow. I’ve got to pitch, you know. There isn’t anybody else.”

They had already said good-by to the mine owner, so when they finished
dressing they went out to the car. Dick took his seat at the wheel
while the Texan turned the engine over.

As they went through the gates, Tucker leaned forward from the tonneau.

“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.

Merriwell’s eyebrows went up a little.

“Why, to the Field Club, of course,” he returned. “Have you forgotten
that we promised Gardiner to come there directly from the mine? We
didn’t get half enough practice yesterday.”




CHAPTER XII.

THE GAME BEGINS.


A steady stream of baseball fans poured into the Field Club grounds. It
was Saturday; there was not a cloud in the sky, and it seemed as though
every man and boy, as well as the greater part of the women, of Forest
Hills had made up their minds to witness the great game.

In perfect equality clerks rubbed elbows with their “bosses.” Newsboys,
with bare feet and dirty faces, shouted witticisms over the shoulders
of bankers and merchants. Miners, in their rough working clothes,
thronged the field in great numbers and kept up a continuous roar
for their team. Automobiles had been barred from the grounds that
afternoon, but an endless string of them lined the street outside.

The game was scheduled for three-thirty. At two the grand stand was
crowded and the bleachers filled to overflowing. An hour later there
was not a seat to be had for love or money; men were scattered all
around the diamond, wherever they could find a place to stand, and a
solid mass of humanity lined the fence back of the field. The wide
veranda of the clubhouse was jammed to the very rail with wives and
daughters of the members, in their bright summer dresses, whose gay
chatter added a lighter note to ceaseless hum of many voices.

As the hour struck the mine boys took the field for fifteen minutes of
short, snappy practice. As they did so a great roar went up from the
bleachers, which continued long and loud until stilled by the upraised
hand of Orren Fairchilds, who, despite his injury of that morning,
seemed to be as active as any man on the field.

There was an anxious look on Gardiner’s face as he came over to where
Dick was warming up.

“How’s the arm, old fellow?” he asked.

“Left’s all right, but I’m afraid there’s nothing doing with the
other,” Merriwell answered. “I can toss a couple with it, but that’s
the limit. Begins to pain right away.”

“Think you can pitch nine innings with your left?” Gardiner inquired.

The Yale man smiled.

“I’ll have to,” he said quietly. “What troubles me more is swinging a
bat. I can’t put any strength into it. Guess I won’t be much use to you
in the hitting line.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the curly haired fellow said quickly. “If you
can only pitch through the game the rest of us will try and look after
the batting. I reckon it’s time for us to take the field.”

As the Field Club team took the places of their opponents in the field,
there was a good deal of cheering and stamping from the grand stand,
but a noticeable silence from the occupants of the bleachers. Evidently
the miners did not propose to waste their breath on the opposing nine.

With the hand on the big clock in the clubhouse tower creeping toward
the half hour, the fans began to grow impatient. There was much
shuffling of feet, catcalls and shrill whistles arose and mingled with
them, cries of:

“Get a move on!”

“Get busy!”

“Play ball!”

At exactly three-thirty, the fellows raced in from the field, and the
two captains got together with the umpires for the toss. The Field
Club men won, and promptly took the field again amidst a roar of
approval from the crowd.

The first man up was Jimmy Rooney, the Mispah catcher, a short, stocky,
muscular fellow, with reddish hair and a mass of freckles. As he walked
to the plate a cheer went up from the bleachers, which was quickly
stilled as the umpire tore off the wrappings from a ball and tossed it
to Dick.

“Play ball!” he called.

The Yale man caught it in his left hand and toed the rubber. Buckhart
crouched and gave the signal for an outcurve, and the next moment the
ball left Merriwell’s hand.

“Ball one!” yelled the umpire.

The next one was also wild.

“Don’t let him fool you, Jim,” advised the mine owner. “Make him put it
over.”

A moment later Merriwell got the inside corner of the plate, and Rooney
failed to swing.

“Strike!” barked the umpire, with an upward motion of his right hand.

The red-headed catcher squared himself and dug his toes into the
ground. He wouldn’t let another good one get by.

Merriwell took the signal for a drop. He started the ball high, but it
dropped sharply and swiftly and Rooney decided to strike. Lunging at
it, he hit it on the upper side of his bat and popped it high above the
infield.

It was an easy fly and Reddy Maxwell got under it confidently. Perhaps
he was too confident. At all events, he caught it and--dropped it.

Despite the fact that it seemed a sure out, Rooney was racing toward
first as hard as he could go, and by the time Maxwell snatched up the
ball and lined it to Gardiner, the miner had touched the bag.

Maxwell’s face was crimson as he trotted back to position.

“Hard luck, old fellow,” Dick said quietly.

“Blamed rotten, you mean,” Reddy retorted. “I ought to be kicked all
over the place.”

Herman Glathe, a tall, blond German, came to the bat; and, at the first
delivery, Rooney, who had taken a good lead off the cushion, went down
the line toward second like a race horse.

It almost seemed as though Buckhart, having caught the ball, waited
an instant for Maxwell to cover the sack. Then he sent the horsehide
sphere whistling straight as a bullet into the hands of the red-haired
shortstop, who bent a little forward to receive it and jabbed it on to
Rooney as the latter slid.

“Out at second!” announced the umpire.

But his decision was almost drowned in the excited shriek which went up
from the clubhouse veranda.

“Good boy!” Dick murmured, as he caught the ball.

The next moment Glathe had lined out a clean single into the outfield,
and he reached the initial sack amidst a roar of applause from the
bleachers.

As though to atone for this, Dick teased Sam Allen, the Mispah second
baseman, into striking at the first two balls pitched. Then followed a
couple of wide ones, but Sam refused to be further beguiled. At last he
landed on what he thought was a good one, and lifted a high foul back
of the pan, away near the grand stand.

Like a flash Buckhart snapped off his cage and perked his head up to
get its bearings. Then he spread himself and just managed to smother
the ball within five feet of the front line of spectators, who
shrieked a frenzied approval.

“Two gone, pard,” he grinned, as he lined the ball out to Dick. “See if
you can’t fan this Adonis.”

Bill McDonough was swaggering to the plate with a smile of confidence
on his ugly face, and, as Merriwell watched him through narrowed lids,
he made up his mind to strike him out if he could.

He began on the miner with a jump ball. It shot upward and McDonough,
who had felt certain of hitting it, missed cleanly, nearly throwing
himself down with the violence of his swing.

“That’s pitching, pard,” laughed the Texan, as the sphere buried itself
in the pocket of his mitt. “That’s the kind.”

The burly giant scowled a little as he stamped his spikes into the
ground and squared himself, crouching and leaning a bit backward, with
his weight on his right foot.

Merriwell shifted the ball in his fingers and took plenty of time.
Suddenly he pitched, and the sphere came humming over with speed that
almost made the air smoke.

Again McDonough missed.

A cheer went up from the crowd.

Dick felt that the batter would expect him to try a coaxer, for, with
no balls called, most pitchers would feel that they could afford to
waste one or two.

He glanced around at his backers, his foot on the slab. When he turned,
he pitched without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a
high, straight, speedy ball. It had been his object, if possible, to
catch the miner unprepared, and he succeeded. The batter struck a
second too late, and the ball spanked into Buckhart’s glove.

“Out!” shouted the umpire.

But the word was not heard in the tremendous roar which went up from
the grand stand.

“Bully work, old fellow!” Glen Gardiner said enthusiastically, as they
trotted in from the field. “You shut them out beautifully. Shoulder all
right?”

“Fine!” Dick returned.

“Well, we’ll see if we can’t get a run or two,” the curly haired
captain went on, as he selected a bat. “Nothing like getting a good
start.”

But his hopes were soon shattered.

McDonough proved something of a surprise to the Yale men as they
watched his work from the bench. He was not at all the type of man of
which good pitchers are usually made. Huge almost to unwieldiness, with
muscles sticking out like great cords, at first sight he seemed to
lack the supple, flexible, swiftness so necessary to good work in the
box. Neither did his rough, brutal face give any indication of mental
agility and well-developed brain power, without which no twirler can
succeed.

In spite of all this, however, he did astonishingly well. His chief
reliance was a swift straight ball which started high and ended with a
sharp drop. Besides this he was the master of a few good curves. But
what surprised Merriwell was his amazing headwork. He seemed almost to
read the mind of the man at the bat, and, by some marvelous intuition,
to give him just the sort of ball he was not expecting.

Two strikes were called on Gardiner, who then popped an easy fly to the
infield and was caught out.

Reddy Maxwell promptly fanned, to the tumultuous enjoyment of the mine
crowd on the bleachers.

Tucker managed to bang a hot liner past second and got to first by
the skin of his teeth. Urged by Gardiner, who was coaching, he danced
off the cushion and, with the first ball pitched to Arthur Dean, he
scudded down the line like a streak of greased lightning. Rooney made
a perfect throw to second; but Allen dropped the ball, and Tommy,
sliding, was safe.

It was a wasted effort, for Dean fanned, and the Forest Hills boys took
the field again.

“That’s the biggest surprise I ever had,” Dick said, as he sprang up
from the bench. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Wouldn’t have given ten cents for him that many minutes ago,” growled
Buckhart, buckling his chest protector with a jerk. “He’s sure been
well trained.”

Max Unger, right field, started the inning with a high fly between
short and third, which Garland misjudged, giving Unger plenty of time
to jog to first. He was followed by Foy, the miner’s third baseman, who
lined a red hot single into the outfield.

Hodgson, shortstop, knocked a foul back of first, which Gardiner
gathered in; and Hall, the Mispah first baseman, fanned in short order.

At second, Unger had been inclined at first to lead off pretty well,
but two or three sudden throws from Merriwell, prompted by Buckhart’s
signals warned him to stick close to the hassock.

With two men out and two on bases, Mike Slavinsky, a stalwart Pole,
came to the bat.

“Now, Slavvy, take it easy,” admonished the mine owner. “Don’t try to
knock the cover off the ball. Just a nice little single. Rooney comes
next, you know.”

The big fellow grinned a little as he squared himself at the plate. But
in spite of this warning, he swung at the first ball with such force
that he turned halfway around.

“Easy now,” cautioned Fairchilds--“take it easy.”

Then Slavvy calmed down, let two coaxers go by, and hit the next ball a
smash which sent it across the infield. Stan Garrick forked at it, but
the sphere was too hot to hold, and he dropped it. While he was seeking
to recover it, Unger made third, Foy landed on second, and Slavvy was
too well down to first to be caught.

As Rooney advanced to the bat the Forest Hills infielders crept up into
the diamond. If the miner played the game he would certainly try for a
bunt, and they balanced themselves on their toes, ready to go after it
if the fellow succeeded in laying one down.

For some unknown reason he did not try. Instead, he duplicated his high
fly of the inning before, except that this time there was more muscle
behind it and the ball went sailing into the outfield.

Buck Garland got under it easily and waited confidently for it to
drop. To his intense dismay and everlasting shame, he repeated Reddy
Maxwell’s error, but with far graver results.

The men on bases were off like streaks of greased lightning, and, by
the time Garland had secured the ball and lined it to third, Unger had
crossed the plate and Foy was halfway down from third.

To cap the climax he made a high throw which Dean had to jump for. He
succeeded in stopping the ball, but ere it reached Buckhart’s eager,
outstretched hands, the Irish boy had made a beautiful slide and his
finger tips touched the plate.

A deafening roar went up from the bleachers, augmented by the
enthusiasm of the men in the grand stand, and for five minutes the
field echoed with the frantic cheering.

Glen Gardiner was sick at heart at this display of errors and the
thought that their opponents had secured a lead of two runs. He looked
desperately at Merriwell, who stood calmly waiting for the next batter
to face him. With two men on bases, there was no telling where the
mine boys would stop unless the Yale man checked them at once.

Dick seemed to be of the same mind, for he proceeded to fan Glathe in
very short order.

“By Jove, this is fierce!” Gardiner exclaimed, as his men gathered
around the bench. “We’ve got to brace up. What in the world got into
you, Buck, to do a thing like that?”

Garland shook his head in despair.

“I don’t know, Glen,” he said, with a sickly grin. “It was awful. I
ought to be kicked off the nine. I expect I’ve lost the game.”

“Nonsense!” Merriwell said quickly, before the Forest Hills’ captain
could reply. “Don’t say a game is lost before the third man is out in
the last inning. Don’t even think it, for just as sure as you do, you
begin to lose heart and, whether you realize it or not, you slump. You
don’t make the effort--it doesn’t seem worth while. A game was never
lost for a certainty in the second inning, boys. What if they have a
lead of two runs? That’s nothing. Two runs are easily made up--and
more. Make up your minds that we’re going to win this game. We must win
it, and we shall.”

There was something magnetic in the Yale man’s manner--something
inspiring in his quiet, calm assurance, which seemed to put heart into
the discouraged fellows, causing their eyes to brighten and their
shoulders to square instinctively. The usually deliberate Stan Garrick
snatched up a bat and advanced to the plate with the determination to
start off with a hit.

“I must hit it!” he whispered to himself. “I must, and I will.”

He was altogether too anxious to hit, and somehow, McDonough seemed to
divine this, for the miner pulled him with the first two balls handed
up, neither of which Stan touched.

“You’ve got him, Bill,” chirped Orren Fairchilds, who stood a little to
one side of the plate. “Keep it up.”

“Look out for those wide ones, Stan,” cautioned Gardiner.

Garrick knew he had been fooled into striking at what must have been
balls, and he resolved to use better judgment. It seemed likely that,
having deceived him in such a manner, McDonough would still seek to
lure him into biting at the bad ones, and he resolved not to repeat the
error.

The burly Mispah pitcher took his time. Dick was standing beside the
mine owner, for it was his turn next at the bat, and suddenly he caught
the flash of McDonough’s eye as it was turned in his direction.

It was the briefest possible glance, for the next instant the miner
whipped one over the inside corner of the plate with all the speed he
could command.

Too late Garrick saw that the ball might be good. He could not get his
bat around to meet it, and therefore let it pass, hoping the umpire
would call it a ball.

“You’re out!” came sharply from the umpire.

Garrick stepped back and tossed his bat on the ground.

“Too bad, Stan,” Dick said, as he came forward to take his place.

“Take it easy, Merriwell,” Gardiner advised, in a low tone. “It’s
better to let him fan you than to strain your arm.”

Dick nodded comprehendingly. All the same he did not intend to strike
out if he could help it.

He squared himself at the plate and faced the pitcher. McDonough turned
the ball in his hands, and once more the Yale man caught that brief,
almost imperceptible flash of the miner’s eyes toward the right.

Then he toed the plate and sent in a swift one with a sharp outcurve.

Merriwell did not move his bat.

“Ball one!” cried the umpire.

Again McDonough tried a coaxer, but the Yale man refused to bite, nor
did he budge when the ball came whistling over the plate a little too
high and cut the pan almost on a level with Dick’s neck.

“You’ve got him in a hole,” laughed Gardiner. “He’s going to make you a
present of the base.”

McDonough grinned sourly and then put one straight over the centre of
the plate.

Dick played the game and let it pass.

“Strike one!” declared the umpire.

The miner reached for the inside corner on his next delivery and caught
it.

“Strike two!”

Then the Mispah man sought to send over a high one across Merriwell’s
chest.

Dick lifted his bat, holding it loosely, and dropped the ball on the
ground with a skillful bunt. It rolled slowly along the base line, and
both McDonough and Rooney dashed after it, while the Yale man flew
toward the base as though endowed with wings. Ten feet from the sack he
launched himself through the air, feet first, and touched the hassock a
second before the ball plunked into the baseman’s glove.

“Safe!” yelled the umpire.

As Buckhart came to the plate, Dick took a good lead off the cushion,
and, with the first ball pitched, he was away toward second running
like a fiend.

“There’s nothing the matter with his legs,” chuckled Gardiner, as the
Yale man picked himself up and dusted off the front of his shirt, one
foot on the bag. “I only hope he don’t jolt that lame wing of his too
much.”

This was just what Merriwell was taking particular pains not to do. He
slid either feet first, or on his left side, and, though the shoulder
gave a painful twinge now and then, he hoped it would hold out.

Meanwhile the big Texan, assured and smiling, squared himself at the
plate. He refused to be fooled by the first ball, which went a little
wide; but he presently picked out one of McDonough’s benders which
seemed to suit him, hitting it fair and square with a sharp, snappy
swing which sent it out on a line.

It was a clean drive to the outfield, and two fielders chased the ball
while Brad tore over first and managed to reach second a moment after
Dick crossed the plate to the accompaniment of shrieks from the crowd,
who billowed to their feet in the excitement of the moment, wildly
waving hats and arms and shouting themselves hoarse.

The Field Club team had made a run.




CHAPTER XIII.

AGAINST HEAVY ODDS.


Gardiner was jubilant. With a run already, a man on second, and only
one out, things were picking up.

“Take it easy, Irv,” he said, as Renworth picked out a bat and advanced
to the plate. “All we want is a nice single.”

Then he hurried down to the coaching line at first.

Renworth was not a particularly strong batter. He was apt to lose his
head and misjudge the balls, and, in spite of his determination to make
a clean single or at least a bunt, he had two strikes called on him
almost before he knew it. Then he popped a high fly over toward centre
field, and, but for an error on the part of Glathe, he would have been
done for. Luckily the big German muffed the ball, and Renworth cantered
across the initial sack, while Buckhart reached third.

“Now, Buck, it’s up to you,” Gardiner cried. “You know what to do. Say,
Tucker, come out and coach, will you? I’m up next.”

As Garland came to the plate, Dick kept his eyes fixed on the burly
pitcher. He was very curious to learn the reason for that momentary
sidelong glance which he gave almost before every delivery. He thought
he had solved the problem, but he was not quite sure. There it was
again! A swift, glinting flash of his dark eyes, and then he pitched.

“Strike one!” called the umpire.

“I thought that was it,” murmured the Yale man with much satisfaction.
“He’s getting his signals from Fairchilds. That’s pretty clever.”

Since his attention had been attracted to the pitcher’s odd trick of
hesitating almost imperceptibly before he delivered the ball Merriwell
had been looking about for the reason. Soon he saw that the mine owner
never left his position a little back of the base line some twenty feet
to the left of the plate. He noticed, moreover, that Fairchilds was
strangely silent while his own team was in the field, whereas, with
them at the bat, he took to advising, coaching, and encouraging.

Dick, therefore, came to the conclusion that his first impression of
the burly miner had been correct. It was not his brain which was doing
such good work, but that of Orren Fairchilds. The mine owner had been
able to teach the man curves and speed and good control, but he could
not teach him judgment. Instead, he had done the next best thing, and
by means of a clever system of signals, he himself practically did the
thinking and directed every move made by the burly giant in the box.

At first, Renworth was inclined to stick much too close to the base to
suit the vivacious Tucker.

“Get off! get off!” yapped Tommy. “Stir your stumps! Get to going!
Drift away from that sack, Irv! Stop hugging it! It isn’t a girl. Get a
divorce from that cushion!”

Thus admonished, Renworth danced away from the hassock as McDonough
received the ball from Rooney. Dick noticed the quick flash of his
eyes, and the next instant the burly pitcher whirled without a warning
and lined the sphere to Hall, who covered the base.

“Slide! Slide!” shrieked Tucker frantically.

Renworth did his best, but was caught almost by a hair’s breadth, the
umpire declaring him out.

Then McDonough wound up the inning by striking out Buck Garland.

“Never mind, boys,” Gardiner said cheerfully, as they jogged into the
field. “They’re only one run ahead. We’ll make that up.”

But inning after inning came and went, and the score remained unchanged.

As the game wore on McDonough seemed to improve. His speed grew
greater, his control more perfect, his curves more difficult; but
more surprising than anything else was the wonderful headwork he
displayed. He seemed to divine a batter’s weak points with marvelous
intuitiveness, varying his delivery with a cleverness which was almost
uncanny. In addition to all that, he made so many brilliant put-outs on
bases that the Forest Hills boys dared not take any chances. It was as
though he had eyes in the back of his head.

To the great crowd in the grand stand and on the bleachers, even to the
Forest Hills men in the field, it was an extraordinary exhibition of
almost perfect pitching. Only one among them seemed to realize that the
hulking miner in the box, whose name resounded almost continually from
the mouths of the roaring thousands, was a mere machine, and that the
real credit belonged to the quiet little man, standing silently near
the home plate, his bright eyes taking in every inch of the field--a
man who had once held a high place on one of the big leagues, but who
was doing his playing now by proxy.

Dick Merriwell was fighting desperately against tremendous odds. As
the game progressed his shoulder grew constantly worse. From the first
occasional twinges it had advanced by leaps and bounds, to a constant,
steady, almost intolerable pain, which caused him to catch his breath
at every throw, and made each turn at the bat an agony.

But nothing of this appeared to the men on the field, much less to the
spectators. With splendid grit and unflagging cheerfulness he kept at
the work without a murmur, using every cure at his command and every
possible wile on the man at the bat, though not sparing himself when
speed was necessary. And, thanks to Buckhart’s signals, the mine boys
soon discovered to their cost that they could steal no bases on the
Yale pitcher.

Off the field Merriwell’s cheery voice, on the coaching lines or at
the plate, put new life into the Forest Hills fellows and kept them
from growing disheartened as the fierce battle waged without further
tangible results on either side.

One man on the field saw more than did the others. The big Texan
seemed to realize something of what his friend was suffering, and the
knowledge spurred him to do more than his best. There were no errors
in the Westerner’s brilliant playing. There were no passed balls; his
throws into the field were swift, accurate, and perfect; his eyes
seemed to take in every foot of the diamond; and, time and time again,
his rapid signals caused an unexpected put-out on bases.

At each turn at the bat he made a clean hit; one was a two-bagger,
which the rapid fielding and steady play of the mine boys made
ineffective.

But, in spite of all this, the seventh inning ended without either side
having added to their score.

Before Dick went into the box he had Gardiner put his right arm into a
sling. It seemed to him that if he could have it tied firmly so that it
wouldn’t swing he could get along better.

“If it’s as bad as that you ought to stop,” protested the curly haired
captain.

Dick shook his head decidedly.

“At the beginning of the eighth!” he exclaimed lightly. “Never! It’s a
pity if I can’t hold out for two innings. We’ve got to get at least a
couple of runs, you know, old fellow.”

Among the spectators the excitement was intense. Such a game had never
before been seen in Forest Hills, and every man sat forward on the edge
of his seat, his eyes glued on the field. Something must happen soon.

As Dick appeared with his arm in a sling, a voice from the bleachers
roared:

“His wing is on the bum, boys! Now’s the time to pile up the runs!
Hammer the life out of him!”

But they did not.

Merriwell had resolved to hold them down. More runs at this stage of
the game would be fatal, and, summoning every effort, he put forth all
the skill that was in him. Grimly he kept at the work, pitching with
his left hand, and striking out some of the heaviest hitters who faced
him; and in little more than ten minutes the Mispah boys were back in
the field.

Tucker now started the ball rolling by lining out a red hot one past
shortstop. Dean fanned and Tommy stole second, making the cushion by a
hair’s breadth amid a cloud of dust. Then Garrick popped a fly out to
left field, and, shrieking with joy, Tucker saw Slavvy muff it. Tommy
scooted to third, while Stan made first by a close margin.

Fortune was certainly smiling on the Forest Hills boys.

Merriwell slipped the sling from his arm and, picking up a bat, walked
over to the plate.

He allowed two strikes to be called and then bunted, sending the ball
rolling and squirming toward first. He was out, but he had accomplished
his purpose, for Tucker slid home and Garrick reached second safely.

The score was tied, and the crowd in the grand stand and about the
field shrieked itself hoarse. There was a sullen silence from the
bleachers.

Gardiner was delighted.

“That’s going some!” he cried. “Now, Brad, see if you can bring in
another.”

The Texan refused to be tempted by McDonough’s coaxers. He forced him
to put one straight over and then fell on it with violent delight. It
was a frightful smash, and the sphere went sailing on a line into the
field to the right of centre.

There was nothing slow about Garrick as he dashed across third like a
race horse and, in response to Dean’s frantic urging, kept on toward
home. He made the plate easily, and Buckhart got to second with a
splendid slide.

“Got ’em going, boys,” Brad shouted--“got ’em going!”

The crowd went wild and nearly stamped down the grand stand.

Renworth quickly fanned, but the Forest Hills boys did not care, for
they were one run to the good.

As Merriwell resumed his sling and walked out to the box he was
greeted with a sudden round of applause. Though they did not know the
circumstances, the crowd seemed suddenly to realize how much of the
success of the game was due to the grit of this cool, smiling stranger,
who, in spite of his injured arm, was doing such splendid work.

Herman Glathe, the big German fielder, was the first to face the Yale
twirler.

Dick took no chances. If he could hold them down for this inning the
game would be won. He pitched skillfully and with care, and the German
fanned.

“One down, pard,” grinned Buckhart through the wire meshes of his cage.
“Let the good work go on.”

Sam Allen, the chipper little second baseman, picked up his war club
and squared himself at the pan.

Merriwell was not hurrying, nor wasting his time. Perfectly calm and
deliberate in his movements, he continued his work in the box, and
Allen presently got a high drop which he decided to strike at when he
saw it coming over in a manner that indicated that it would be good.

The ball hit the upper side of Allen’s bat and went into the air.

Like a flash of lightning, Buckhart tore off his mask, whirled, looked
upward, located the ball, and went after it.

A gust of wind carried the ball farther and farther away, but the Texan
stretched himself amazingly and reached it as it came down. It stuck
fast in the pocket of Brad’s big glove; and the miner’s exasperation
was expressed by the manner in which he fiercely flung his bat toward
the bench.

Two men were out, and Bill McDonough strode forward with a look of
fierce determination on his face. He had made up his mind to line out
the sphere or die in the attempt.

The Yale man was equally determined that he should not. He was pitching
as if life and fortune depended on his performance. The torturing pain
in his shoulder was forgotten as he grimly faced the hulking scoundrel
at the plate.

His first ball looked fine to McDonough. Nevertheless, it shot upward
with a little jump, rising over the miner’s bat as he struck.

“Strike!” snapped the umpire.

“Get him, Dick--get him!” implored Tucker. “It will settle everything!
Cook his goose!”

McDonough set his teeth with a snarl; his eyes gleamed fiercely.

He was ready with every nerve tense, hoping and desiring to meet
Merriwell’s speed fairly. But now, at this critical point, Dick, after
using a delivery which seemed to prophesy a swift one, handed up the
slowest sort of a slow ball. It came with such exasperating slowness
from the Yale man’s hand, that something actually seemed holding it
back. In spite of everything he could do, McDonough struck too soon.

A snarl broke from his lips in a sound which was the height of rage
expressed without words. His face turned purple and he gripped the
handle of his bat with all the strength in his great hands. As he
glared ferociously at the cool, half smiling face before him, something
like a haze seemed to gather before his eyes. Before it had passed,
Merriwell whistled over a high, swift ball which cut the plate in
halves.

McDonough seemed to see something flit past, but it was the spank of
the ball into Buckhart’s glove that told him that Dick had pitched.

“Out!” cried the umpire.

With a roar like thunder, the crowd poured down onto the field in a
human cataract from the stand, and, before he could escape, Merriwell
was seized and lifted up on some one’s shoulders. For a moment he
struggled to get away; then, seeing it would be useless, he resigned
himself to the inevitable and waited calmly until their enthusiasm
should cool.

After marching about the field for a few minutes, they came back to the
clubhouse and allowed him to slip to the ground. As he did so, Orren
Fairchilds hurried up.

“Wonderful work, my boy,” he exclaimed--“wonderful! By Jove! I never
saw anything like it. It was a fair, square beat; and every bit of it
was due to you--you and that catcher of yours. How did the arm hold
out?”

Dick made a wry face.

“It’s not as comfortable as it might be,” he confessed.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” the mine owner said quickly. “You ought to
get something on it at once. Come around to the club and take dinner
with me to-night about seven--bring your friends with you. The Reform
Club, on Locust Street, you know. Good-by.”

With a wave of his hand, he disappeared into the crowd; and Dick
hastened into the dressing room of the club.

A few minutes before seven o’clock that evening Dick drove the _Wizard_
up to the entrance of the Reform Club, and slipping the plug into his
pocket, alighted with his three friends.

In the reception hall an attendant came forward.

“Is Mr. Fairchilds here,” Dick inquired--“Mr. Orren Fairchilds?”

The man looked at him rather curiously.

“Are you Mr. Merriwell?” he asked.

Dick nodded.

“Kindly take the elevator to the third floor,” the attendant said
quickly. “He asked that you be sent up directly you came. James!”

A page came forward, and the man said something to him in a low tone.
Then he waved them toward the elevator, and in a moment they were
whisked upstairs.

The page stepped out first and, going down the hall a few steps, opened
a door and announced clearly:

“Mr. Merriwell!”

Dick stopped aghast on the threshold. The room was a private dining
room and not small, yet it seemed to his startled senses to be full of
people.

“There’s some mistake,” he gasped. “I----”

The mine owner suddenly appeared and seized his hand.

“Come in, my boy--come in,” he said briskly. “What are you afraid of?
Just a few people I wanted you to meet.”

There was a smile on his face, and he winked at Buckhart over
Merriwell’s shoulder.

As in a daze, Dick followed his host into the room. He had a vague
recollection of being presented to an amazing number of men, who
smiled at him and shook his hand warmly. They were of all ages,
from gray-haired, stout, substantial bankers and merchants, down
to clean-cut, good-looking fellows of his own age, among whom he
recognized smiling Glen Gardiner and most of the other members of the
team.

One, a tall, handsome man of middle age, with a close-cropped beard and
brilliant, kindly eyes, he heard spoken of as the mayor.

At length he found himself at one end of a very long table. Orren
Fairchilds was on his left; he had quite lost sight of Brad and the
others.

Presently the mine owner arose, and, as he did so, the talk and
laughter ceased and silence fell.

“Gentlemen,” he began slowly. “I have asked you here to-night to meet
a young friend of mine. To many of you his name is well known as that
of the best amateur pitcher in the country. Most of you had a chance of
seeing his work this afternoon, when he pitched nine hard innings with
as perfect form and most wonderful display of headwork that I have
ever seen--and entirely with his left arm. His right was injured, and I
should like to tell you how.”

He paused. The smile had left his face and his eyes were deep with
feeling.

“In the mine this morning there was a premature explosion of a blast,”
he went on. “I was caught by the falling rock and pinned to the ground,
unable to stir. As I lay there on my back, I saw a great mass poised
above me, loosened from the top of the tunnel, ready to fall at a
breath and crush the life out of me. My friend, here, saw it too, and
knew that he was risking almost certain death when he sprang to my
assistance and began to drag the rocks off me.

“I begged him to go and leave me. It seemed useless for us both to
perish. Of course, he refused. The rock began to move. I shrieked to
him to go back, but he did not answer. The next instant he caught me up
and dragged me back just as the mass fell. There had not been a second
to spare. He had saved me at the risk of his own life.”

The mine owner paused again, and one hand rested affectionately on the
Yale man’s shoulder. Then he leaned forward and took up a brimming wine
glass.

“Gentlemen,” he said slowly, as he held it up, “I drink to Dick
Merriwell, the gamest pitcher, the truest sport, the bravest man I
know.”

Like one man, the company rose, holding their glasses high. As with
one voice the shout of “Merriwell--Dick Merriwell!” made the rafters
ring; and they drank the toast standing. Then they subsided into their
chairs, and in the silence which followed, Dick pushed back his chair
and stood up slowly.

His face was flushed, his eyes bright and, as he looked down that long
line of friendly faces, something clutched his throat. For a moment he
could not utter a word.

“Thank you,” he stammered huskily. “I--I cannot say--another word, but
just--thank you.”

He dropped back upon his chair; a thunderous clapping broke forth, and
something like a mist flashed across the Yale man’s eyes and blurred
his sight.




CHAPTER XIV.

THREE MEN OF MILLIONS.


Marcus Meyer, head of the wealthy firm of jewelers who did business
under the name of the Meyer Diamond Company, was pacing restlessly up
and down his luxuriously fitted up private office on the third floor of
the Commercial Building in Denver.

He was a smooth-shaven, alert Hebrew of about thirty-nine or forty,
well groomed and clothed with a fastidious taste, which was almost
foppish, in garments of the very latest cut and material. In reality,
however, there was nothing of the fop or fool about Marcus Meyer. He
was a keen, quick-witted business man of extraordinary cleverness, and
had the reputation of knowing more about the inside conditions of the
diamond industry than any other individual west of the Alleghenys, save
only the great Herman Spreckles, of Chicago.

As he walked restlessly from end to end of the long room, his
troubled eyes sought the ornate clock which slowly ticked away the
minutes on a mantel of carved marble, and every now and then his
slim, well-manicured fingers strayed to his smooth, black hair in an
unconscious gesture of impatience.

Presently he stopped at one end of the long mahogany table, which
was set around with heavy leather-cushioned chairs, and occupied
the centre of the room. Seated in one of these chairs was a man of
about fifty-five. Short, stout, and comfortable of build, round-faced
and rosy-cheeked, with light-blue eyes in which was a look of
almost infantile innocence, one would never have guessed him to be
the Philander Morgan who held a controlling interest in so many
corporations on the Pacific Coast, and who was reputed to be the
wealthiest man in San Francisco.

“I can’t understand why he doesn’t come,” complained Meyer, in his
quick, nervous manner. “The train was due at nine-fifteen, and here it
is nearly ten.”

He took out a handkerchief and passed it over his moist forehead.

Philander Morgan eyed him quizzically, with a slight pursing of his
lips.

“Ah, you young men!” he said placidly. “How much vital energy you
waste in worry! You prance about, tear your hair, and get hot
and unpleasantly moist; and what do you gain by making yourself
uncomfortable? Nothing. Spreckles will come because he said he would,
and I have never known him to break his word. There are such an
infinite number of reasons why he should be late that it is useless
to speculate. Take my advice and make yourself comfortable until he
appears.”

He folded his plump hands and gazed meditatively at the ceiling.

“I know it’s absurd,” Meyer replied, with a harassed smile; “but I
can’t help it. Besides, I have so much more at stake than you. In
comparison to all the other irons you have in the fire, your interest
in the diamond trade is insignificant. But should this monstrous,
incredible thing prove true, I shall be ruined--totally ruined.”

Philander Morgan withdrew his eyes from the ceiling and puffed out his
fat cheeks.

“Tut! tut!” he protested. “Don’t speak of it. Surely you have not
allowed yourself to credit for an instant this wild rumor. It’s
absurd--impossible.”

The Hebrew tapped nervously with his finger nail on the polished
surface of the table.

“That’s what I told myself at first,” he said slowly. “I snapped my
fingers at them--I laughed. It was inconceivable, beyond the bounds of
reason. But later, every evidence seemed to point----”

A loud knock sounded at the door and he broke off abruptly.

“Come in!” he cried, springing to his feet.

The door slowly opened and an old man appeared on the threshold. He was
very tall and very thin, with narrow, drooping shoulders and a slow,
almost shambling step. His clothes were mussed and almost threadbare;
but, in spite of that, it needed no more than a glance at the wrinkled
face, the great mane of snow white hair brushed straight back from a
high, broad forehead, the piercing eyes, bright as live coals, gleaming
through big spectacles with rims of tortoise shell, to tell that he was
somebody.

Such a man was Herman Spreckles, of Chicago. Rumor had it that, besides
his many other interests, he was the moving spirit of a gigantic secret
combination of jewelers which ruled the diamond market of the United
States with a rod of iron.

Marcus Meyer hurried forward with both hands outstretched.

“My dear Mr. Spreckles!” he cried joyfully. “I am very glad to see you.
We were beginning to fear that you had missed your train.”

The tall man sniffed scornfully as he took one of the Hebrew’s hands.

“Huh! Did you ever know me to miss a train, Meyer?” he inquired.

Then he looked out in the hall.

“Come in, Pickering--come in!” he said sharply. “Don’t dawdle out
there.”

He moved away from the door, and a slim, alert-looking man of about
forty appeared, at the sight of whom Marcus Meyer’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah--Pickering!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “I’m glad you’re here.
We shall need the skill of the best diamond expert in the country
before we’re through, or I’m very much mistaken.”

Meanwhile Herman Spreckles had advanced to the table, where Philander
Morgan arose ponderously to greet him.

“Ha! You here, too?” inquired the older man, peering through his
spectacles. “This begins to look serious.”

He shook hands with the stout man and dropped into a chair.

“Well, Meyer, let us get to business at once,” he said briskly. “I must
take the early afternoon train back. What’s this cock-and-bull yarn
you’ve been writing me about. Begin at the beginning and let us get
through with it. Sit down, man--sit down! You make me nervous stamping
up and down that way.”

The Hebrew dropped upon a chair and passed his hand over his hair with
a nervous gesture.

“You both had my letters in cipher,” he began quickly. “You know about
the mysterious diamonds which have been coming in to me for the past
few months with such amazing regularity.”

Spreckles nodded.

“Exactly,” he said impatiently. “You purchased them on my instructions
at the prevailing price, and I wired you to ascertain where they came
from. Have you done so?”

Marcus Meyer made a gesture with his hands.

“I have, so far as has been in my power. There was no difficulty in
finding out who they came from. Their original source remains as much a
mystery as it was in the beginning. Perhaps, in order that we may have
all the facts clearly, I had better tell the whole story briefly.”

He looked questioningly at the white-haired Spreckles, who nodded
silently.

“On the third of March,” Meyer began, “a man came to me and asked
whether I wished to buy some diamonds. I told him, of course, that I
should have to examine them first, whereupon he promptly pulled out of
his pocket an oblong package wrapped in white tissue paper. Imagine my
astonishment when I unrolled it and found within, twenty perfect stones
ranging from one to five carats in weight. They were flawless and of
that exquisite blue-white color which, as you both know, is so sought
after and so rare. I have sold no better stones than those for five
hundred dollars a carat.”

“And the man?” Herman Spreckles asked quickly. “Where did he say they
came from?”

“He would not say,” Meyer answered. “He would tell me nothing. He said
that if I did not care to buy them he would go elsewhere. I finally
paid him three hundred and fifty dollars a carat--a great bargain. As
soon as he had gone, I sent for a detective and had inquiries made. The
fellow was one Johnson, a native of Denver, who had been in a variety
of enterprises, none of which were very successful. For the past year
he had apparently done nothing at all, though the report had it that he
lived very well, in a comfortable place on the outskirts of the city,
where he kept an expensive motor car, among other luxuries. His only
intimate was an eccentric fellow named Randolph, who came here from the
East some seven years ago, built an extraordinary fortified dwelling
in the mountains, and has lived there a recluse ever since, supposedly
dabbling in chemical experiments of some sort.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Spreckles. “You had this fellow Randolph looked up?”

“Not at once,” returned Meyer. “At the time it seemed to me that he
could have no connection with the diamonds. It was much more probable
that Johnson had stolen or smuggled them; but as the weeks passed
no stones of that description were reported missing, and inquiry
at Washington revealed the fact that there had been no suspicious
purchasing abroad. The day after I received that letter, Johnson
appeared with another packet, which, on opening, I found to be in every
way identical with the first. There were twenty stones of the same
blue-white color, and they weighed, to a fraction of a carat, exactly
what the first had weighed.

“I was dumfounded. It seemed incredible that such stones as those
could have been brought into the country without my knowing it. I was
positive they had not been stolen. Johnson persisted in his absolute
silence regarding the source from which they came, he was even loath
to let them remain in my hands for three days while my experts made an
exhaustive examination of them. It was then that I wrote to you. I had
already paid out nearly twenty-five thousand dollars for the first lot,
and dared not sink any more money without your sanction.”

“Quite so,” nodded Spreckles. “You sent on one of the stones, and I
wired you to purchase as many of them as you could, and to find out
their source.”

“Exactly,” returned Marcus Meyer. “I paid the man and at once set the
detectives on the trail of Randolph, for the thing was becoming too
serious to neglect any clue, however slight. The report they turned in
was singularly complete in some respects, and disappointingly lacking
in others. Scott Randolph is a man of about thirty-two or three. He
comes from a good New England family, and, while he was still in
college, his father died and left him about seventy-five thousand
dollars. He appears not to have any near relatives and but few friends.
He graduated from Yale, and then spent three years at the Sheffield
school of science, where he paid particular attention to chemistry
and mechanics. After leaving New Haven he came directly to Denver,
bought a tract in the mountains and built there a stone house which
is absolutely impregnable. The windows are guarded with iron bars and
steel shutters, the door is of steel like a safe, and, so far as I
could discover, no human being but this Johnson has ever been inside.
His provisions are brought to the door and left there; apparently he
does his own cooking, for there are no servants around.”

Herman Spreckles lifted a thin, wrinkled hand.

“Wait,” he said quickly. “What about the men who built the house?”

“All brought from a distance,” Meyer answered. “None of them could be
located. I did, however, examine a teamster who carted his belongings
from the freight office. This fellow saw a few rooms in the lower
part of the house and confirms the general impression that the place
is as difficult to get into as a fort. Randolph’s belongings were all
carefully crated, but the teamster remembered that many of the crates
were extraordinarily heavy; several, he knew, contained machinery.”

“At regular intervals Randolph disappears. At first it was supposed
that he had left the house, since no amount of knocking or pounding
could rouse him. After my detectives got on the trail, they kept a
strict watch of the place day and night to catch him when he came forth
or returned, in order to find out where he went. They finally came to
the conclusion that he did not leave the house. He did not issue from
any of the doors or windows. His motor car remained unused in a small
shed to one side of the larger building. It was apparent, therefore,
that he shut himself up alone for some purpose.”

He paused and looked from one to the other of the two men before him.
They were both intensely interested in his recital. Philander Morgan’s
fat face had lost the look of baby innocence, and had taken on a keen,
alert expression, which quite transformed the man. Spreckles’ shaggy
head was bent slightly forward and from beneath beetling brows his eyes
gleamed like coals as he surveyed the Hebrew.

“Well,” he said sharply--“well, what was that purpose?”

Marcus Meyer hesitated, his slim hand straying again to the smooth head.

“I can think of but one solution,” he said slowly at length. “Wild,
absurd, incredible as it may sound, I think the man has discovered the
secret for which so many scientists have toiled in vain. I believe--he
has found a way--of manufacturing diamonds!”

The stillness which followed the Hebrew’s amazing statement was so
intense that the slow ticking of the clock on the mantel beat on the
tense nerves of the waiting men like the strokes of a hammer. Suddenly
Philander Morgan snorted incredulously.

“Ridiculous!” he cried in a shrill voice. “The thing’s impossible!”

Herman Spreckles made no reply, for several moments his piercing eyes
remained fixed on Meyer’s pale face. Then he turned swiftly toward the
man he had brought with him.

“Pickering!”

The name came snapping from his thin, straight lips like the shot of a
pistol, and the young man sprang up from where he had been sitting at
the far end of the table and came forward.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is such a thing possible--manufacturing diamonds, I mean.”

James Pickering hesitated an instant.

“It has been done,” he said slowly. “Both Edouard Fournier, of Paris,
and Professor Hedwig, of Berlin University, have produced pure
diamonds; but the process was so costly and the resulting stones so
small, that their methods were not commercially practicable.”

Again silence fell. Spreckles was thinking, while Philander Morgan
sat aghast, with pendulous cheeks and popping eyes. His expression of
dismay would have been ludicrous had the situation not been so serious.

Marcus Meyer passed a crumpled handkerchief over his moist forehead;
then he began again.

“I can think of no other explanation,” he said in a low, strained
voice. “The man never leaves his house. His only known accomplice
never leaves Denver. Yet, a few days after these regular periods of
retirement, twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of exquisite diamonds
are brought to me with the precision of clockwork. They are all of the
same perfect quality and the carat weight of each package is identical.
I could make out my check beforehand and it would be correct.”

“You have the stones?” Spreckles asked quickly.

Meyer nodded.

“All except those in the first lot, which I have sold.”

“Get them.”

The Hebrew arose from the table and went over to a great safe in
the corner. Opening this, he took out a small drawer, which he
carried back and placed before the other two men. The contents of
the drawer were hidden by a folded square of black velvet, and when
this was removed and spread out on the polished mahogany, five small,
insignificant-looking packets of white tissue paper were revealed.

With fingers that trembled a little, Meyer took up one of these
packets, and, unfolding the paper, poured the contents out on the
velvet square.

There was a glittering cascade of light as they streamed down onto the
velvet and lay against the black surface, a blazing mass, catching the
light from a thousand facets, gleaming with a wonderful fire, until
even Herman Spreckles could not suppress an exclamation of admiration,
as he leaned forward and plucked one between thumb and forefinger.

“A diamond of the first water,” he said slowly, examining it intently.
“And you tell me that has been made by the hand of man? I won’t believe
it.”

He turned to Pickering, who stood behind his chair.

“Look it over, James,” he said, “and let us know what you think of it.”

The expert’s face was slightly pale and his eyes very bright, but
otherwise he betrayed no signs of emotion as he took the stone from the
old man’s hand and carried it over to one of the windows. Here he fixed
a glass in one eye and began a thorough inspection of the diamond.

Philander Morgan clasped his chubby hands together nervously.

“But what are we going to do?” he asked plaintively. “If this man can
make diamonds, the bottom will fall out of the market in no time. We’ll
be ruined. Our stock will be worthless. What are we going to do?”

Herman Spreckles surveyed him with a cynical gleam in his black eyes.

“Don’t cry before you’re hurt, Morgan,” he said sarcastically. “Even if
you lose your diamond stock, I hardly think you’ll be a candidate for
the poor house. Besides the stock has not depreciated yet, and it is
our business to see that it does not.”

He glanced up from under his shaggy brows at the expert, who was coming
back from the window.

“Well, Pickering, what’s the verdict?”

“It’s a diamond, all right, Mr. Spreckles,” the man said decidedly.
“I’ll stake my reputation on that. It has all the fire and color of the
best products of the Kimberly mines, and is absolutely flawless. It’s
worth easily five hundred dollars a carat. Whether it is a natural or
manufactured product I cannot tell. Had I not heard the story Mr. Meyer
has just told, I would have sworn that this came from South Africa. As
it is, I frankly confess I am puzzled. If this Randolph has discovered
a process whereby diamonds like this can be made, he has done something
which will cause a world-wide stir, and very probably world-wide ruin
to a vast industry.”

Philander Morgan moaned a little and wiped his fat face with a large
handkerchief. Marcus Meyer was biting his finger nails nervously. Only
the grim Chicago magnate remained apparently unmoved.

“Select some from the other packets,” he said tersely, “and examine
them carefully. We must be sure of the facts before we act.”

The expert selected two stones at random from each of the four unopened
packages, and retired with them to the window.

Spreckles leaned back in his chair and put the tips of his skinny
fingers together.

“This Randolph,” he began slowly, “receives mail, I suppose--parcels by
express and by freight?”

“Very little mail,” the Hebrew answered. “Most of it is apparently
from chemical supply houses and other dealers. He seems to have no
personal correspondence. It is also rare that anything comes to him by
express; but he has a good many pieces of freight, which are invariably
delivered by Johnson. So far as I have been able to discover, they also
come from supply houses and seem to contain chemicals of some sort.”

“We must make sure,” Spreckles said significantly. “From this moment
Randolph must receive nothing into that house which we do not know of.
Above all, his letters must be examined carefully.”

Marcus Meyer’s face paled a little.

“But the government----” he protested.

“Tut, tut, my dear Meyer!” Spreckles said calmly. “You are a sensible
man, and a clever one. Don’t let us have any foolish qualms when a
matter of such moment is at stake. There are plenty of ways in which
this can be done quietly and safely by a man of your ability. I leave
the details to you, who are on the ground. But I repeat that neither
Randolph nor this man Johnson must receive anything which you have not
previously read or examined. Well, Pickering?”

The diamond expert returned the stones to their original packets and
faced his employer.

“They are identical with the first one,” he said quietly. “Perfect,
flawless, and of equal value. I think there can be no question that
their source is the same.”

“I expected as much,” Spreckles said quietly. “Though I am not an
expert like Pickering, my eyes are still pretty fair, and I have
examined a goodly number of diamonds in my life. That will be all for
the present, James. Be good enough to wait for me downstairs. I will be
through directly and we can take lunch and return on the early train.”

As the door closed behind the diamond expert, Herman Spreckles bent
forward a little and fixed his eyes keenly on Marcus Meyer.

“In addition to the precautions I have suggested,” he said quietly, “it
is absolutely necessary for us to obtain an entrance to this house of
Randolph’s and make a thorough examination. That is the most important
step of all. It would be more satisfactory if you yourself could be
present, but I doubt whether that is possible. However, pick your
detectives intelligently, tell them exactly what you want to know, and
the result should be adequate.”

The Hebrew’s face turned pale and he twisted his fingers nervously
together.

“But think of the risk,” he objected. “That’s a criminal proceeding.
It’s breaking and entering.”

The older man waved away his objection impatiently.

“Don’t be a child, Meyer,” he snapped. “Everything, in this world is a
risk. Do you realize that your very existence is at stake? If we don’t
get at the bottom of this business and stop it, you will be ruined, and
Morgan and I will be severely crippled. Let us have no more of this
foolish squeamishness. Do as I tell you, and do it at once.”

As he arose, his gaunt height towered above his companions.

“One more thing,” he went on. “Don’t let the man suspect. Buy all the
diamonds which are offered, and above all keep silent about them.
Should a whisper of this get abroad, a tremendous slump in our stocks
will follow. Keep me advised daily as to your progress. I am taking
the two-fifteen train back. Don’t hesitate to draw on me for money if
you need it. Good-by.”

He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, leaving
Philander Morgan and Marcus staring at one another with expressions of
the deepest anxiety and concern.




CHAPTER XV.

THE MYSTERIOUS MR. RANDOLPH.


Rather less than twenty-four hours later Dick Merriwell entered the
lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel and walked directly to the desk.

“Anything for me on that last mail, Fred?” he asked.

The clerk turned to the rack behind him.

“I believe there is, Mr. Merriwell,” he answered. “Yes, here it is.
Only one, though.”

“That’s all I was expecting,” he returned.

He walked slowly from the desk, tearing open the envelope as he went.
Close by the door he stopped to glance through the several sheets it
contained.

“He’s well and flourishing, that’s one good thing,” he murmured. “It’s
so long since the last letter that I was beginning---- By Jove, what a
peculiar coincidence!”

Without pausing to read further, he folded the letter hastily and
hurried out of the door and down the steps. Waiting at the curb stood
the _Wizard_ in the front seat of which was Brad Buckhart. Letter in
hand, Merriwell sprang up beside him.

“Say, Brad,” he began eagerly, “talking about coincidences, I’ve got
one here that beats the Dutch. Do you remember that interesting scrap
of conversation we couldn’t help hearing last night in the dining room?”

“I sure do,” the Texan returned promptly. “The one between the dressy
little Jew and the pudgy gent with the china-blue eyes, you mean?”

Dick nodded emphatically.

“That’s it,” he returned quickly. “They were talking about somebody by
the name of Randolph--Scott Randolph, who evidently had something to do
with diamonds.”

“If I got their lingo straight, he had quite some to do with them,”
Buckhart put in. “Unless I’m a whole lot wrong, those same two gents
were saying that this Randolph manufactured ’em.”

“It did sound that way,” Merriwell returned; “but of course, that’s
impossible. We must have misunderstood them. At any rate, they were
very secretive about it, for the minute the little fellow noticed us,
he nudged the big man and they shut up like clams.”

He paused and unfolded the letter he had just received from his brother.

“Here’s a letter which just came from Frank,” he went on. “He’s well
and very busy and all that. Glad we’re having a nice trip and a lot
more that won’t interest you. Then comes the coincidence. I just want
you to listen to this:

“‘This will reach you while you are in Denver,’” Dick read. “‘I wish,
if you have time, you would look up an old friend of mine who is
located somewhere near there. He’s a rather retiring chap and doesn’t
care at all for company; but we got to be pretty good friends at Yale,
and afterward kept up a more or less regular correspondence for some
time. I haven’t heard from him in over two years, and several letters
of mine have been unanswered. I’d like to know whether he is still
in the land of the living; and, if so, what he is doing and why he
doesn’t write occasionally. He was a great fellow for experimenting
with chemicals and had the most extraordinary inventive ability and
talent for mechanics that I have ever seen. I fancy he is doing a lot
of experimenting, though he never told me just what he was after. His
name is Scott Randolph. If you find him, tell him I should very much
like to hear from him again.’”

Dick folded the letter and restored it to the envelope. As he did so, a
card dropped out of the latter and he stooped over to pick it up.

“Scott Randolph!” the big Texan exclaimed. “Now what do you think
of that? This is a sure enough interesting gent. Mebbe he’s got the
receipt of making diamonds out of these chemicals he experiments with.”

Dick secured the card from the bottom of the car and tucked it into his
pocket.

“Just one of Frank’s cards introducing me to his friend,” he said. “I
think I shall do my best to present it. From the way Frank writes about
him, Randolph must be a good sort of a chap, and I’d like to meet him
for other reasons.”

Buckhart laughed.

“A chap that can make diamonds must be a very good sort,” he observed.
“I’d sure like to put my blinkers on him. Mebbe he’d present us with a
bushel or two. You hear me softly warble!”

“That’s all nonsense, of course,” Dick smiled. “We must have
misunderstood those men last night. You know we only heard a few words.
But, all the same, I’d like to meet this Randolph. Now we’ve seen
Tucker and Bigelow off for Colorado Springs, we haven’t a thing on hand
for the rest of the day, and we might as well start on a still hunt
for this friend of Frank’s. I’ll run in and see if Fred knows anything
about where he can be found.”

He stepped out of the car and reëntered the hotel lobby, walking up to
the desk. The clerk was not busy and turned to him at once.

“Say, Fred,” Merriwell began, “I’m looking for a man by the name of
Scott Randolph, who is supposed to live in or around Denver. Ever heard
of him? That’s a pretty big order, I know, but you seem to be wise to
the life history of about every one in town.”

The hotel clerk laughed.

“You’ve got me this time,” he said. “Scott Randolph? I don’t think I
ever heard of him. What does he do? In business here at all?”

“I don’t think so,” Dick answered. “I believe he spends most of his
time experimenting with chemicals, or something like that.”

There was a puzzled look on the clerk’s face as he looked meditatively
across the lobby. All at once his eyes brightened.

“Say, there’s old Captain Winters sitting over there,” he said. “He’s
the boy that can tell you what you want if anybody can. He’s a regular
old man gossip, and there isn’t much that gets away from him, I can
tell you. If he ever wrote a book and put in it all he knows about
people in this town, you bet your life there’d be things doing. Come
over and I’ll introduce you.”

He slipped from behind the desk and walked across the lobby, with Dick
at his side, approaching a little, weazened-up old man who was reading
a paper in an armchair close by one of the big windows.

“Captain Winters,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Merriwell, who is
looking for some information about a party in town. I told him you’d be
able to give it to him if anybody could.”

The old man peered at Dick over the tops of his spectacles, extending a
palsied hand.

“Pleased to meet you, young man,” he piped in a shrill voice. “Pleased
to meet you. Fred’s a great boy to talk. Mebbe I know a thing or two
about folks, but I ain’t telling it all. He, he! I wouldn’t dast. What
was it you was wanting to find out?”

“I’m looking for a man named Scott Randolph, Captain Winters,” Dick
smiled. “I think he lives somewhere on the outskirts of town.”

“Scott Randolph!” the old man said sharply. “Why, I’m surprised at
ye, Fred. You’d oughter know who that is. He’s the one that come here
seven or eight years ago an’ built that crazy house like a fort in the
mountains off Bonnet Trail a piece.”

“Oh, is that the man?” the clerk exclaimed. “I didn’t know his name
was Randolph. Well, I guess you can tell Mr. Merriwell how to get out
there. I must go back to the desk.”

He left them and Dick dropped into a chair beside the captain.

“Folks call it ‘The Folly,’” resumed the old man with the peculiar zest
and relish of a born gossip. “It’s built like a fort, with bars to the
winders and a door like a safe. Nobody knows what he does there, but
they do say he invents things. Folks going by has heard enjines going
fit to kill, an’ onct Jake Pettigrew, that keeps the store in Duncan,
seen a great flame o’ fire shoot out o’ the roof. Whatever he’s doing,
he ain’t up to no good, you can depend. It’s agin’ nater an’ the Bible
to fool with the powers o’ darkness.”

“Did you ever see him, Captain Winters?” Dick asked curiously.

“Not more’n a couple o’ times, my boy. He don’t come around often.
Sometimes folks don’t set eyes on him for weeks at a time; then again,
he’ll come down to town in his autermobile. He’s a smallish, bald man,
not much to look at. Some say he’s cracked, but I ain’t comitten’
myself.”

The captain pursed up his lips and shook his head slowly with the air
of one who could tell a good deal more if he only would. In reality,
he had already exhausted his small store of wisdom regarding Scott
Randolph, who remained a perplexing mystery that the old gossip had
never been able to solve.

“Can you tell me how I can find this place?” Dick asked.

“I kin,” answered the captain, “but it ain’t likely to do you much
good, cause he never lets anybody inside the door. Howsomever, you kin
try, if you have a mind to. You know where Bonnet Trail is, I s’pose?”

“Runs out to the mountains a little south of Georgetown, doesn’t it?”
Dick asked.

“Yep. About twenty miles out is Duncan. It ain’t much of a place; jest
a few houses an’ Jake Pettigrew’s store. Randolph’s place is some four
miles from there, as I recollect. You’d better ask Jake, though, an’
he’ll tell you right.”

Dick arose from the chair.

“Thank you very much, Captain Winters,” he said, holding out his hand.
“I’m very glad to have met you, and shall see you again while I’m here.”

“Don’t mention it,” returned the old man. “Let me know if you get inter
Randolph’s. I’m kinder curious.”

“I will,” Dick laughed, turning toward the door.

Buckhart yawned openly as his friend appeared beside the car.

“Say, pard,” he drawled, “why didn’t you stay a couple of minutes
longer and clean up the hour. I reckoned you were plumb lost and was
just thinking of organizing a searching party of one to locate you.”

Cranking the engine, Dick squeezed past the Texan and took his seat at
the wheel.

“I couldn’t break away from the old party who was telling me about our
friend Randolph,” he explained. “He seems to be something of a mystery
to the people around here. In fact, it is quite doubtful whether we
shall be let into his place, once we’ve found it.”

“Say you so?” Brad inquired interestedly. “Let’s hear about it.”

Threading his way through the streets, Merriwell narrated for
Buckhart’s benefit the curious story, or rather fragment of a story, he
had just heard from Captain Winters; and by the time they reached the
outskirts of the city and wheeled into Bonnet Trail, the Westerner had
all the particulars and was as much interested as his chum.

“Looks like there was something queer about this gent, pard,” he
remarked. “My curiosity has sure riz up on its hind legs.”

The road was extremely bad, being full of ruts and bumps and apparently
not much traveled, so that it took them a good two hours to reach
Duncan, where Dick drew up in front of the one store the small place
boasted. A tall, lank individual in shirt sleeves and cowhide boots
lounged in the doorway, chewing a straw.

“Are you Mr. Pettigrew?” Dick asked, stopping the engine.

“I are,” was the laconic reply.

“Can you tell me how I can get to Mr. Randolph’s place?”

Jake Pettigrew nearly swallowed the straw in his surprise, and was some
time recovering it. When he had done so, his face was rather flushed
and in his eyes there was a look of unmistakable interest.

“Randolph’s place?” he exclaimed. “The Folly, you mean?”

“That’s what they call it, I believe,” Merriwell answered.

“Take the footpath just beyond Injun Head Rock,” the lanky man
directed, resuming with an evident effort his air of indifference.
“It’s about four miles along the trail. You can’t miss it, ’cause
the rock looks like the head of an Injun. ’Tain’t of’en Randolph has
callers.”

“So I understand,” Dick said. “Is he at home, do you know?”

“So help me, no,” the man answered hastily. “He may be, or he mayn’t. I
don’t know nothin’ about him.”

The Yale man thanked him, and with the engine started, the car
continued up the hilly trail on second speed. They passed the rocky
peak which, strange to say, really did bear some resemblance to an
Indian’s head, and a few hundred yards beyond came to a clearly defined
track leading from Bonnet Trail up into the foothills.

Dick turned the car in to one side of the road well out of the way.
Pocketing the coil plug, he followed Buckhart out of the machine, and
they started up the narrow, rocky track on foot.

It wound straight up into the mountains, hugging the steep wall on one
side, while on the other the ground fell away abruptly into a multitude
of gorges and ravines. Sometimes the descent was precipitous and the
track seemed almost to be hung in mid-air over an abyss, while at other
places the slope was more gradual and covered with great boulders,
mingled with a heavy growth of pine and bushes.

At length they rounded a sharp turn and came out on a fairly level
plateau, perhaps a hundred yards in diameter, completely hemmed in on
three sides by high cliffs, while on the fourth it fell away abruptly
into a deep ravine.

Facing them, and built against the highest cliff, was a stone house,
which they at once made certain was the one they sought.

It was large and square, and composed entirely of the same dark, somber
rock of which the surrounding mountains were made. Hugging, as it did,
the cliff, it was somewhat hard to distinguish just where the natural
rock ended and the house began. This difficulty was increased by the
fact that the dwelling was in reality built into a sort of depression
in the side of the cliff, the jagged top of which overhung the roof.

In the middle of the front side was a large door that seemed to be
closed by a single sheet of iron or steel, while the windows, even on
the upper floors, were protected by stout iron bars and some sort of
inside shutters.

Taken all in all, it was a most dreary, desolate, prison-like
structure, to which the surrounding barriers of jagged, gray cliffs,
hard, bare, with no relieving touch of green, added an almost sinister
grimness.

“By George, pard, what a place to live in!” Buckhart said in a low
tone. “I’d as soon bunk up in a prison.”

The depressing influence of the surroundings was so great that,
unconsciously, the Texan had lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

His companion did not answer. His head was bent slightly forward and
there was look of keen intentness in his eyes. The next moment he spoke.

“Listen!” he said softly. “What’s that noise?”

In the silence which followed, a faint, regular, scraping sound came
from their right. It was so slight that for a minute or two neither of
them could place it. At length they decided that it came from around
the corner of the building, a spot which they could not see from their
present position at the entrance of the plateau.

Scrape, scrape, scrape. Scratch, scratch, scratch. It sounded, with the
regularity of clockwork.

Buckhart eyed his chum with a puzzled expression on his face.

“What the deuce is it?” he whispered.

“I’m not sure,” Dick returned, “but it sounds like filing--as though
somebody was filing an iron bar. I’m going to find out.”

He dropped down on his hands and knees and commenced to creep slowly
through the scattered boulders to the right. Brad promptly followed
him, and in less than five minutes they were ensconced behind a great
rock, from which a very good view of that side of the house could be
obtained.

There was a momentary pause, and then they both peered cautiously
around the corner of the boulder.

The next moment the Texan caught his breath with a sudden, swift
intake, his eyes widened with astonishment. Dick, crouching beside him,
pressed his chum’s arm warningly, without for an instant averting his
own gaze from the surprising sight before them.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.


On the ground floor of this side of the house were two windows, barred
and shuttered like the rest, and, crouching in a group about the one
nearest the cliff, were four men.

They were roughly dressed in dark clothes and slouch hats, and their
faces were completely covered with black masks. One of them was on
his knees cutting methodically at the bottom of an iron bar, while a
companion stood by his side, a bottle of oil in his hand, from which
he occasionally poured a few drops on the saw. The other two men stood
a little to one side, taking no part in the work, but watching its
progress with every sign of intense interest.

When they had fully taken in what was going on, the two chums drew
back into the shelter of the boulder and Dick eyed his companion
significantly.

“Looks as though some one was even more interested in Randolph than we
are,” he murmured.

“That’s what,” Buckhart returned softly. “Did you ever see anything
like their nerve, breaking into a man’s house in broad daylight?”

At that moment the filing ceased and the watchers looked out just in
time to see two of the masked men take the bar in their hands and
slowly bend it upward. That done, the fellow promptly commenced work on
the next bar.

He had scarcely done so when the sound of some one carelessly whistling
a tune, came faintly from a distance.

The effect was magical. The man at the bar sprang to his feet with an
oath and dropped his file. The other three looked around in a startled
manner, and there was a brief, hurried consultation between all four.

The whistle grew louder and more distinct. To Dick it seemed that the
sound came from the ravine to the left of the house, but he was too
much interested in the proceedings of the masked men, to pay particular
attention to it.

After a swift interchange of words, the group split up and, hugging the
wall of the house, stole noiselessly in single file toward the front
corner.

The situation was growing more and more interesting. By squirming
forward a little, Merriwell managed to reach a spot where he had a good
view of both the front and side of the house. The next moment, to his
amazement, he saw the head and shoulders of a man appear at the edge of
the ravine and step up on the plateau.

Short and slim, he was dressed in a suit of khaki with leggings, as
though he had been riding or taking a long walk. As he sauntered toward
the door with a springy step, his cheery whistle sounded out of place
in the gloomy desolation of the silent spot.

Dick caught his breath and his heart beat a trifle unevenly. The
foremost of the masked men had almost reached the corner of the house
when the whistling stopped and the slim unknown slipped his hand into
his pocket and pulled out what was apparently a key.

Something was going to happen, and that very soon. Merriwell felt it
instinctively and waited, muscles taut and nerves quivering, for the
first move to be made. The Texan crouched behind him, also ready for
business. Though he could not see the man at the door, Dick’s eyes were
riveted on the four masked ruffians, who betrayed by their actions
that they were up to no good.

The slim man fitted the key into a lock; and then, with the resulting
click, there was a rush of feet from the corner of the house as the
masked men came at him in a bunch.

Though taken by surprise, the fellow at the door was quick as a cat.
Whirling around, his back to the opening, he met the first comer with a
straight blow from the shoulder which sent him reeling back against one
of his companions. But the odds were too great, and almost instantly
the man in khaki was borne to the ground by the sheer weight of his
opponents, though he still continued to struggle desperately.

It was then that the two Yale men took a hand in the game. A swift rush
carried them across the plateau, where they landed on the masked men
with the demoralizing suddenness of a thunderbolt.

In grim silence each one seized a collar and jerked a man to his feet,
at the same time administering a swift jab on the jaw which sent the
fellows sprawling a dozen feet away. This performance was repeated with
the other two, and, as the ruffians landed on the ground with a thud,
the unknown sprang up with the elasticity of a rubber ball.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said in a quick, incisive voice.

One hand slid to his hip pocket and he drew a serviceable-looking
revolver, which he leveled at the masked men, who apparently about to
resume their attack.

“Get!” he ripped out tersely, his eyes gleaming. “Beat it! Vamoose! If
you’re not out of sight in three minutes I’ll drill you full of holes.”

The tallest of the four--the one who had done the filing--seemed
inclined to disregard the warning, but one of his companions plucked
him by the arm and whispered a few words into his ear.

“Skip!” repeated the slim man. “I mean what I say. The next time
I catch you around here I’ll shoot first and you can explain
afterward--if you’re able.”

Without further delay, the men turned and hurried toward the trail. The
unknown watched them until they were out of sight, and then he wheeled
quickly around.

“I seem to have an unexpected influx of callers to-day,” he remarked.
“Might I ask your business?”

His tone was cool and self-possessed, but he shoved the revolver back
into his pocket as he spoke.

“You are Mr. Randolph,” Dick inquired--“Mr. Scott Randolph?”

The stranger nodded and his eyes narrowed.

“I am,” he said tersely. “And you?”

The Yale man took a card from his pocket and handed it to the other.

“My name is Merriwell,” he said, quietly. “My brother asked me to give
you this.”

As his eyes fell on Frank Merriwell’s card with the brief written
words, “Introducing my brother Dick,” the cold, questioning, almost
skeptical expression, instantly left Scott Randolph’s face, and his
keen, gray eyes softened with a look of friendliness, mingled with
regret.

“I’m awfully glad to meet Frank’s brother,” he said warmly, as he
extended his hand. “The more so since you came just in time to help me
out of a tight place. I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful because
I didn’t enthuse at first. The truth is, I’ve got so I look at every
one with more or less suspicion, and, even though you did knock those
ruffians around some, I couldn’t understand what you were doing here.”

Dick shook his hand heartily.

“Don’t mention it,” he smiled. “I think I understand a little of what
you mean. It was rather startling to have four masked men pile onto you
and then be assisted by two others who were total strangers. This is my
friend Brad Buckhart, Mr. Randolph.”

Randolph gripped the Texan’s hand warmly and then looked at Dick again.

“How is Frank?” he asked quickly. “Though I don’t deserve to know,
after the beastly way I’ve neglected him lately. He was my friend at
Yale--almost the only fellow I could really call a friend; but so much
has happened in the past few years----”

He broke off abruptly and his face sobered.

“Perhaps some day you’ll understand,” he finished slowly. “Tell me
about Frank.”

“He’s well and happy, and absorbed in his work,” Dick returned. “He
wanted me to look you up and see what you were doing and why you hadn’t
written.”

Scott Randolph suddenly pulled out his watch and looked at it with a
worried expression.

“By Jove, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, his face clouding. “I’d forgotten.
I can’t stay here another minute--can’t even ask you in. I have a most
important--engagement. It’s frightfully inhospitable, but I can’t very
well explain. Say, won’t you both come back and take dinner with me at
six o’clock? You can spend the evening, and we’ll have a good talk. I
can’t tell you how beastly sorry I am.”

Though Dick was rather surprised, nothing of it appeared in his manner.

“Why, I think we can,” he said slowly. “We’ve nothing on for to-night
and we might come.”

“That’s splendid!” Randolph exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “Come at
six, and I’ll be ready for you.”

He had already picked up the key from where it had dropped to the
ground and was fitting it into the lock with feverish haste. The two
Yale men started away, when Dick suddenly remembered something.

“Those fellows were filing a bar in one of your windows,” he called
back.

Randolph did not turn his head.

“Thanks,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll look after it presently.”

The next instant he had disappeared inside the house, and the steel
door closed with a clang which resounded through the rocky gorge. As
the two friends hesitated at the entrance to the plateau, they heard
the click of the key and the sound of a bolt being shot home. Then
silence fell.

Neither of the two chums spoke a word until they were well along the
narrow track and the stone house was out of sight. Then Buckhart
stopped suddenly.

“Well, of all the wild, woolly, mysterious goings on,” he burst out,
“this has sure got any I ever bumped up against skinned a mile. Say,
pard, tell me honest what you think of a gent who is piled on by four
bad men with masks, and as soon as we politely rescue him, he looks at
us like we were bunco steerers, and asks our business. Furthermore,
when he’s found out we’re fairly respectable he gives us the glad hand,
and the next minute tells us to run away and play, and come back to
dinner. I tell you there’s something a whole lot queer about this here
Randolph. You hear me talk!”

“He certainly seems to be a trifle odd in his behavior,” Dick returned.
“But, all the same, I rather like his looks. Wait until after to-night
before we pass final judgment on him. He may have a pretty good reason
for everything he’s done. Come on, Brad, don’t waste time here. It
evidently hasn’t occurred to you that the gentlemen with masks may have
taken a fancy to the _Wizard_ and made a quick getaway in her.”

“Great Scott, no!” the Texan gasped. “I never thought of that.”

Almost at a run, they covered the rest of the narrow path, and both
gave an exclamation of relief as they reached Bonnet Trail and found
the car safe and sound where they had left it.

“Gee, what a relief!” Dick said, as he gave the crank a flip and
stepped into his seat. “I hadn’t the slightest desire to hoof it back
to Denver; and in these parts a stolen car is a mighty hard thing to
get track of.”

Turning the _Wizard_ deftly, he started her back toward the city. An
animated discussion at once arose concerning the mysterious Scott
Randolph, his personality, his peculiar dwelling, and above all, his
probable occupation, which continued until the hotel was reached;
without, it must be confessed, arriving at any very satisfactory
solution on any of the points.

Promptly at a quarter before six that night the _Wizard_ again passed
Jake Pettigrew’s store, causing that worthy to gasp in surprise and
instantly to be assailed with the awful pangs of ungratified curiosity.

The car did not stop. Disappearing up the hill in a cloud of dust, it
was guided to the spot where it had rested earlier in the day, and the
two fellows stepped out and walked briskly up the narrow path.

As they reached the plateau both men hesitated instinctively, their
eyes traveling curiously over the front of the strange building. The
sun was low in the west, and the frowning, battlemented cliffs cast
weird, purpling shadows over the desolate spot. Out of these shadows
rose the grim, gray, silent walls of the house. No cheerful ray of
light penetrated through the steel shutters of the barred windows
to welcome the expected guests. They were like the eye sockets in a
skull--gaunt, dark, expressionless. A thousand things might happen
behind those walls of which they would never give a hint.

With a shrug of his shoulders, the Texan likened the place to a tomb,
and they walked forward and beat a resounding blow upon the door.

It was opened almost instantly, and Scott Randolph stood smiling on the
threshold, his slim figure silhouetted against the blaze of light which
streamed from the hall behind him.

“You’re on time to the minute,” he said briskly. “Come in and make
yourselves at home.”

Blinking in the glare of light, which was as grateful as it was
unexpected, Dick and Brad stepped into the hall. Randolph swiftly
clanged the door to behind them and shot the bolt.

“Where did you leave your car?” he asked, turning to them. “I assume
that you came in one.”

“Out on the trail,” Dick answered. “I reckon it’s safe, isn’t it?”

The older man laughed.

“Sure thing,” he said. “There’s hardly any one uses the trail after
dark. I have a little car which I keep in a shed a couple of miles this
side of Duncan, but it’s no pleasure to use it on Bonnet Trail, so I
don’t often take the trip in to Denver. Well, what do you think of my
castle? Want to look around before dinner?”

The Yale men gave an instant eager assent. The glimpse they had
already had of the broad, comfortably furnished hall, with its rugs
and pictures and easy-chairs scattered about, all brilliantly lighted
by the clusters of electric globes suspended from the ceiling, had
amazed them and stimulated their curiosity. Somehow, it was so totally
different from what they had expected, that Dick could not help
commenting on it.

Scott Randolph laughed heartily.

“Did you expect to see bare prison walls and a stone floor?” he asked,
when he had recovered his breath. “I don’t know that I blame you,
though. The outside of the place does look pretty fierce, but I had
special reasons for wanting it that way, and I tried to make up for it
as well as possible inside.”

He opened a door to the left of the hall and stood aside for them to
enter.

“This is my library and general lounging room,” he explained. “It takes
up this whole side of the house.”

The room, a good fifty feet long and half as wide, was lined with
bookshelves crowded to overflowing. A great stone fireplace occupied
the centre of the outside wall, a piano stood in one corner, and all
about were scattered comfortable chairs and couches, together with
several tables on which were shaded electric lamps. The floor was
covered with rugs and skins of various sorts.

“What a dandy room!” Dick exclaimed enthusiastically. “I don’t know
when I’ve seen one more homelike or attractive.”

“It’s where I rest from my labors and enjoy myself,” Randolph said
lightly. “We’ll settle down here after dinner and have a good talk.”

He led the way to the hall again and started upstairs. Then he seemed
to change his mind.

“Let’s have dinner first and do that afterward,” he said. “Aren’t you
fellows hungry?”

Confessing that they might be induced to partake of food, they followed
him through the door opposite the one leading into the library. Though
not quite two-thirds the size of the big room, the dining room was
still spacious. The furniture was of dark oak, simple but substantially
made, the table being spread with a spotless linen cloth and lighted
with shaded candles in silver candlesticks. There were places laid for
three; a large, oblong chafing dish stood at one end, while in the
middle of the table were several covered dishes.

Randolph motioned them to their places, taking his seat in front of the
chafing dish.

“You fellows will have to be charitable to-night,” he remarked, as he
took off the cover and laid it aside. “My work is of such a nature that
it is impossible for me to have servants of any kind about, and, as a
result, I have grown accustomed to looking after things myself.”

Dick looked at him in surprise.

“Do you mean to say that you never have any one here to cook or clean
up?” he asked.

Scott Randolph hesitated.

“Well, not exactly that,” he said slowly. “I have a fri--a man who
comes in and helps me occasionally; but as a rule I look after myself.
It isn’t hard when you’ve grown used to it, and the chafing dish is a
great help. Of course, when I’m alone, as I generally am, I don’t do
things elaborately.”

His apology for the meal was quite unnecessary, for it was delicious
and cooked to perfection. The two fellows enjoyed every mouthful of it,
marveling how a man could live so well in a place that was so out of
the way as to be almost in a wilderness.

Scott Randolph was an ideal host. Bright, witty, and entertaining
in his conversation, he had, when he chose to exert himself, an
extraordinary charm of manner. By the time they arose from the table
and returned to the library, both Merriwell and Buckhart had made up
their minds that he was a very good sort indeed, and were not surprised
that he had been a friend of Frank.

They settled down comfortably on a couch, and for nearly an hour Dick
regaled his host with everything he could think of that would interest
him regarding Frank’s doings, even giving him the latter’s letter to
read.

“I shall write to him to-morrow,” Randolph said contritely, when the
Yale man had finished. “I’m afraid, living in seclusion as I do, with
scarcely any relaxation from an absorbing and interesting work, I’ve
grown selfish. I don’t want Frank to think I’ve forgotten him, for I
haven’t. One makes few enough real friends in this world, and a fellow
is lucky to have one like your brother.”

Dick hesitated for an instant.

“Would it be impertinent if I asked what your work is?” he asked
slowly. “Frank was very much interested in it.”

Randolph cast a swift glance at Buckhart, who was examining the
bookshelves at the other end of the room.

“Shall you see Frank soon?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“Probably within a few weeks,” Dick returned. “I’ll drop in on him on
my way back to New Haven.”

“Then I will tell you, but you must not write it to him. You must tell
it to him only by word of mouth, and then when he is alone. I shall
have to ask for your word of honor that you will say nothing to any
other living soul of what I am about to confide in you. Will you pledge
me this?”

The Yale man did not reply at once. What could be the nature of a work
which required such secrecy as this?

“I assure you it is necessary,” Randolph went on in the same low tone.
“If the slightest hint of my discovery should leak out, it would
precipitate the greatest panic this country--nay, the world--has ever
seen.”

Dick gave a slight start. A sudden thought had flashed into his brain.
Could it be possible that---- He recovered himself quickly.

“I give you my word, of course,” he said gravely. “I shall say nothing
to any one but Frank of what you have to tell me.”

Randolph breathed a sigh of relief as he bent closer to the Yale man.
His voice was so low that the latter had to strain his ears to hear.

“Listen,” he murmured. “I have discovered the process of making
diamonds. Not tiny pinheads such as Fournier of Paris has produced, but
stones of any size I wish, which the greatest experts in the country
cannot distinguish from the natural gems. By the merest chance in my
experimenting, I have stumbled upon the secret for which men have
sought since the world began; and wealth beyond the dreams of avarice
is in my grasp.”




CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE CLIFFS.


For a moment Merriwell sat dazed and bewildered. It was true, then!
Those few muttered words, overheard by chance the night before in the
dining room of the Brown Palace, were true, and not wild figments of
the imagination as he had supposed them. Somehow it did not occur
to him for an instant to doubt Scott Randolph. Perhaps, had he not
heard that stifled scrap of conversation, he might not have believed
so readily this amazing, incredible statement. But it seemed to fit
in so well with what Randolph had just told him--to confirm it, in a
way--that he felt no doubt.

“Then what they said is true,” he murmured, his eyes fixed in wonder on
the face of the slim man beside him.

Randolph suddenly stiffened as though an electric current had passed
through his body.

“Who said?” he rasped. “What did they say? Quick, tell me!”

Dick repeated the scrap of conversation he and Brad had heard in the
hotel dining room, and as he listened Randolph’s face paled.

“Who were they?” he asked in a strained voice, “What did they look
like?”

Dick shook his head.

“I don’t know who they were. One was a medium-sized Jew, very carefully
dressed; the other a stout man with a fat face and small blue eyes.
The expression on his face was like that of a peevish baby. They both
looked like men of importance.”

“Marcus Meyer!” Randolph exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “I don’t
know the other one, but Meyer controls the diamond trade in the Middle
West. They don’t really know; they only guess. But even if they were
sure, they would keep it quiet for their own sakes.”

Buckhart strolled toward them at that moment.

“You folks must have Frank talked to death,” he drawled.

“We’ve just finished,” the older man said, with a smile, as he rose
from the couch. “Would you boys like to look about upstairs?”

In one breath the Yale men expressed their readiness, following their
host out into the hall and up the broad stairs. Randolph touched a
button at the top of the flight which flooded the upper hall with
light. The next instant Dick thought he heard him draw a sudden, quick
breath. Buckhart heard nothing, for he had dived promptly into an open
door close to the head of the stairs.

“Any light in here?” he called.

Scott Randolph hesitated for the fraction of a second and then pressed
a button on the wall.

“By George!” the Texan exclaimed. “This is sure a funny room. What’s it
for, anyhow?”

Stepping to the door, Dick looked in. The room was a small one, not
more than twelve feet square, and had neither doors nor windows,
nor any other opening save the entrance. It was absolutely bare of
furnishings, with not even a shelf on the wall nor a scrap of paper on
the floor. There was nothing but the four walls of gray stone.

“Looks like a vault,” Buckhart remarked.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Randolph said slowly. “But the only treasures
I have kept there are expensive chemicals which cannot be exposed to
light or air or dampness. If I should shut this door on you, I venture
to say that in two hours at the latest, you would have exhausted every
bit of oxygen in the place; and since it is absolutely air tight----”

“Say, don’t!” the Westerner exclaimed, with an expression of mock
dismay. “Let me amble out, quick!”

Scott Randolph laughed as Buckhart came out of the room, but his
eyes narrowed a little when the Texan caught sight of the peculiar
construction of the door. Instead of being of wood, it was of sheet
steel. On one side were cemented slabs of stone so that, when closed,
it would be absolutely impossible for a person inside to locate that
door. On the outer side it was covered with the same oak paneling with
which the hall was lined, and there were no signs of lock or catch, not
even so much as a doorknob or latch.

“That’s certain sure a neat job,” Brad commented. “When it’s shut
nobody can tell where it is. Regular secret room, isn’t it?”

“That was one of my hobbies,” the man of mystery explained. “When it is
shut, I can push a secret spring which slides a powerful bolt and holds
the door so that it would be easier to tear down the wall than to open
it.”

He switched off the light and closed the door. Both Dick and Brad
examined the wall closely, but neither of them could tell between which
panels the joint came.

The remainder of the second floor was divided up into five bedrooms and
a bathroom, the water for which was pumped into a tank on the roof by a
windmill on the cliff above. Passing by a door at the end of the hall,
which, as their host mentioned casually, opened into a store closet,
they mounted to the next floor, which was given over entirely to the
laboratory and experimenting rooms.

They were all filled with a multitude of machines and pieces of
apparatus, many being of strange shapes and unknown uses. Randolph
stepped forward to explain one of these to the Texan, giving Dick a
significant glance, and at the same moment pulling open a drawer in a
cabinet which stood against the wall.

Merriwell had difficulty in restraining an exclamation of amazement,
for the drawer was half full of the most beautiful diamonds he had ever
seen. They were of varying sizes from a pea to a small hickory nut, and
Dick gave a stifled gasp as he looked at the shimmering, glittering
blaze of light.

The man closed the drawer with a snap and turned to the visitors,
his face a trifle pale. The drawer contained a king’s ransom. It
seemed beyond the bounds of reason that they could have been actually
manufactured by this slim, quiet man.

“But how do you get away from this place without anybody seeing you?”
the Texan was asking. “People say you’re away for weeks at a time, but
no one sees you go or come.”

Scott Randolph threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“That’s very simple,” he said. “I don’t go away. When a passion for
work comes over me I shut myself up and absolutely refuse to open the
door to any one. It’s the only way I can accomplish anything. They may
hammer and pound all they like, but I pay no attention to it. That’s
one of the reasons why I had this house built like a fortified castle.
I can shut myself up in it and work undisturbed.

“Of course, I have to lay in a big supply of eatables, and so forth.
For instance, this very afternoon I got in a big order from Jake
Pettigrew’s store; and, when you have gone to-night and the door is
locked behind you, I shall begin one of these periods of retirement in
order to complete some very important work. Nothing short of blowing
the house down would induce me to open the door again.”

As he finished he cast a significant glance at Dick, who thought he
understood what that important work would be.

After looking about a little longer, they descended to the lower hall.

Glancing at his watch, Dick saw that it was almost ten o’clock.

“It’s about time we were wandering,” he said. “I can’t tell you how
much I have enjoyed myself, Mr. Randolph. It is very good of you to
have us up here, and I shall be careful in delivering your message to
Frank.”

“The pleasure has been mine, I assure you,” Randolph returned, as he
shook hands with the Yale men. “It is not often that I have such a
relaxation. I am only sorry that the pressure of work will not allow
me to see you again. However, we shall meet somewhere, some time. The
world is very small, after all. Good-by, fellows, and good luck.”

As he spoke, he swung open the great steel door, and, with a cordial
good-by, Merriwell and Buckhart went out into the night. For a brief
instant they stood in the brilliant square of light which poured out of
the doorway. Then it was suddenly blotted out as the door clanged and
the bolt was shot.

“He’s sure not running any chances,” Buckhart remarked, as they
stumbled forward through the darkness. “I reckon his work must be
mighty important when he has to shut himself up in a prison to do it.”

Dick made no answer. He could scarcely say anything on that score
without committing himself, so they felt their way along in silence
until they struck the road. Their eyes becoming accustomed to the
darkness, they made much better time to Bonnet Trail, where they found
the _Wizard_ safe and sound as they had left her.

Merriwell turned on the prestolite and lit the lamps, before cranking
her. Then, circling around, he started slowly down the road toward the
city.

As they passed Pettigrew’s store a voice suddenly hailed them from the
dark piazza:

“Hey, there, you fellows!”

Dick stopped the car and looked back.

“You want us?” he asked.

Pettigrew’s lank figure loomed up out of the darkness as he hurried to
the side of the _Wizard_. His lively curiosity had made it impossible
for him to sleep, and he had been sitting alone on the piazza for some
time waiting for the return of the Yale men.

“I jest wondered how you made out up to The Folly?” he remarked, with
an attempt at casualness.

Dick laughed.

“Why, we had a very good dinner and passed a pleasant evening there,”
he replied.

“Waal, I swan!” ejaculated the storekeeper. “I reckon you’re the only
fellers, ’ceptin’ Al Johnson, as is ever been inside the place. What’s
it look like? What’d you have fur supper?”

“It’s just like any other house inside,” the Yale man answered. “You
ought to know what we had for supper, you furnished the supplies,
didn’t you?”

“I did not!” snapped Pettigrew. “I of’en wondered why this here
Randolph don’t git his stuff here. It’s nearer nor anywhere else.”

Dick hesitated a moment.

“Didn’t Mr. Randolph leave a big order with you this afternoon?” he
asked.

“No, nor any other arternoon,” the storekeeper returned promptly. “He
never bought a cent’s worth offen me.”

This was evidently a sore point, for the man displayed considerable
heat.

“Well, we must be getting on,” Dick said, as he let in his clutch.
“Good night, Mr. Pettigrew.”

As the car glided away, Merriwell was thinking over this new discovery.
Randolph had certainly told them of getting in a large order of
supplies from Pettigrew’s that afternoon, and yet the storekeeper had
just declared most emphatically that the man had never bought a cent’s
worth from him. Randolph must have been lying. Why had he done so? What
possible reason could he have for wishing to deceive them?

The next instant he put his hand up quickly to his breast pocket.

“By Jove, what a chump I am!” he exclaimed in a tone of annoyance.

“What’s the matter now, pard?” the Texan inquired.

Dick stopped the car with a jerk.

“I’ve left my pocketbook back at Randolph’s,” he explained.

“Are you sure you left it there?” Brad asked. “Mebbe you dropped it in
the car.”

“No; I left it in the library,” Merriwell returned positively. “I
remember now taking it out to get Frank’s letter, which Randolph wanted
to read. I laid it on the couch, intending to replace the letter when
he had finished. Instead, I must have put it in my pocket and left the
bill case lying there. We’ll have to go back. It contains all my money
and a lot of other things.”

He jammed on the reverse and, by dint of careful manœuvring, turned the
car around and started back. In a few minutes the path was reached,
and they scrambled out and hurried along it as rapidly as they could.

Under the bright starlight they had no trouble in finding their way;
but reaching the plateau and facing the grim, stone building, it seemed
even more desolate and deserted than when they had left it half an hour
before. Under the shadow of the towering cliffs, the house loomed up a
vague, mysterious bulk.

It did not seem possible that there could be a living soul behind those
dark, silent walls; but it had looked that way before, and the opening
door had revealed a bright glow of cheerful comfort. Consequently the
two hastened confidently to the entrance and Dick knocked loudly on the
steel door.

The sound reverberated in a hollow manner which seemed loud enough to
wake the dead, and they waited expectantly for a response. But none
came. Their keen ears could detect no sound of footsteps within; the
massive door remained closed.

After five minutes of patient waiting, Dick was raising his hand to
knock again when Buckhart gave a sudden exclamation.

“By George, pard! I’ll bet we can knock here all night without his
coming. Don’t you remember what he said about shutting himself in after
we were gone, and paying no attention to anybody or anything?”

“Yes, I remember that, all right,” Dick answered; “but I thought that,
coming so soon after our departure, he would guess who it was and come
down to----”

He broke off abruptly and looked swiftly upward.

“Listen!” he exclaimed in a low voice.

In the silence which followed there came faintly to their straining
ears an odd, muffled humming. For a moment they both thought it was one
of the pieces of machinery in Randolph’s laboratory, but very soon
they reached the conclusion that it was much farther away than that. It
seemed to come, in fact, from high up among the cliffs which towered
above the house.

Dick looked at his friend significantly.

“It’s a gasoline engine,” he whispered.

Buckhart nodded silently. It certainly sounded very much like one.

“What the mischief is it doing up there on the mountain?” he asked
presently.

There was no chance for Merriwell to reply. The humming increased as
though the engine was speeding up, followed by a strange rustling,
creaking noise unlike anything they had ever heard. Suddenly before
their astonished eyes, a vast, black, shadowy shape rose slowly from
the cliffs and hovered an instant in the air high above them. There
was a majestic sweep of great wings, as it made a wide, half circle;
then it shot northward into the darkness, gathering momentum at every
instant, and a moment later the muffled hum of the engine died away in
the distance.

“Thundering coyotes! What was that?” the Texan exclaimed, when he had
recovered from his surprise.

“An aëroplane, I should say,” Dick returned quietly, though his voice
quivered with suppressed excitement.

This new development added tremendously to the mystery with which the
personality of Scott Randolph was surrounded, for it must belong to
him. There could be no question of that. But why had he not spoken
of it? What was it doing up on the cliffs? Above all, what did this
silent, stealthy flight through the darkness mean?

“What in time is it doing up there?” Brad questioned.

“I haven’t an idea. I suppose it belongs to Randolph and that he keeps
it up on the cliffs somewhere.”

Silently they turned and began to retrace their steps.

“Say, partner, mebbe that’s what he’s experimenting on,” the Texan
remarked presently.

“Perhaps it is,” Dick returned absently.

Could it be that Randolph had deceived him? Was it possible that the
amazing statement he had made was false, and that, instead of making
diamonds, he was experimenting on an aëroplane?

Merriwell did not like to think that the man who had once been a friend
to Frank, and whom he himself had found so attractive and likable,
would stoop to a thing like that. It was so totally unnecessary, too.
He need not have told any story at all had he desired to keep his work
a secret. Dick had nailed one lie that night, and if there was one
thing he despised above another it was a deliberate liar.

But there was the drawer full of diamonds. They were real enough
and bore out the man’s astounding statement. It was a most puzzling
situation.

All at once Buckhart caught his friend’s arm.

“Look,” he cried excitedly--“look at the lights!”

Following the direction of the Texan’s hand, Dick strained his eyes to
the northward. There certainly were lights there. Brilliant, regular
flashes came from high up in the air many miles away. As Merriwell
studied them, it seemed to him that some one was signaling from the
clouds. If they were really signals, the man was using a secret code
and not the regular government system, with which Dick was perfectly
familiar. Suddenly they ceased.

“Signals, weren’t they?” Buckhart inquired.

“Looked like it; but I don’t know the code.”

They had reached the car and Dick stooped to crank it. The next instant
he let go the handle and stood erect, his head bent back and his eyes
upward, in an attitude of strained attention.

A faint humming sound came from the distance, gradually growing louder.

The aëroplane was returning.

Even as this conviction darted into his mind, the vast shape flashed by
high in the air. For a second the shadowy form was barely discernible
against the glittering stars, and then it vanished from sight among the
mountains.

“Back again, eh?” commented the Texan. “What do you know about that? I
tell you, pard, this here gent has sure got me guessing some.”

Starting the engine with a flip of the crank, Dick took his seat at the
wheel and Buckhart climbed in beside him.

“You’re not the only one he has guessing,” Merriwell remarked, after he
had turned the car and started back. “He’s a most perplexing mystery,
and I rather think we couldn’t spend to-morrow more profitably than in
trying to solve that problem.”

For several hours that night Dick tossed restlessly on the bed. His
mind was working so actively that it seemed impossible to go to sleep.
Theory after theory flashed into his brain, as he sought to account for
the curious behavior of Scott Randolph, only to be rejected because of
some serious flaw in his reasoning. Each of the important, vital facts
he had gathered concerning this mysterious man were utterly at variance
with the other.

The astounding statement that he had discovered a method of
manufacturing diamonds seemed to be corroborated by the drawer full of
the precious gems, and also by the scrap of conversation the two Yale
men had overheard in the dining room of the Brown Palace. Besides, Dick
knew that diamonds had been produced by scientists, though not on a
scale which made the process a scientific success. But the thing was
possible.

In the face of all this stood the lie Randolph had told and the
presence of the aëroplane. Why had the man kept such absolute silence
about the flying machine when he had been so communicative in a
far more vital matter? And more than that, why had he told Dick a
deliberate falsehood in the matter of the provisions? What had been his
object? What had he gained?

At last the Yale man gave it up and fell into a troubled slumber.

Bright and early next morning the _Wizard_ again left the city and spun
out along Bonnet Trail. Merriwell had cashed a check at the desk before
starting and so was supplied with funds. Yet he was anxious to obtain
his bill case more for the papers it contained than for anything else;
and besides, it would serve him as a sufficient excuse for trying to
locate Randolph.

Again the car was driven over to the side of the trail and the coil
plug removed. Again the two friends hurried up the narrow, mountain
track which led to the mysterious house of stone.

In the bright glare of the morning sun it did not look so gloomy and
desolate as it had the night before; but it was still quite grim and
forbidding enough, with its blank expressionless windows and absolute
lack of sound or life.

Merriwell had hardly expected any response to his repeated poundings
on the metal door, and he was not disappointed. He might have spared
himself the effort.

When he was finally satisfied that there was no possibility of
effecting an entrance, he turned his attention to the cliffs above the
house, from which the aëroplane had appeared. A glance told him that
they were insurmountable. For the greater part of their height they
were almost as smooth as glass, and the top ledges overhung the plateau
in such a manner as to make an attempt at climbing them out of the
question.

“I’d certainly like to get up there,” he remarked. “But there’s nothing
doing from here.”

“Do you think the flying machine is up there, pard?” Buckhart inquired.

“That’s what I want to find out,” Merriwell returned, “I shouldn’t be
surprised if it were.”

He stepped to the edge of the ravine from which Randolph had appeared
the afternoon previous, but though a faint outline of a path showed
among the rocks, it turned abruptly away from the cliffs and followed
the course of a little stream as far as the eye could reach.

“Let’s take the car and go up the trail a bit,” Dick said, as he
turned from the ravine. “Perhaps we can find some way to climb up the
mountains in that direction.”

They went back to the car and Dick drove slowly on along Bonnet Trail.
For perhaps a mile nothing favorable appeared, then his quick eye
discerned the almost obliterated signs of where a path had once wound
among the rocks up the steep slope. Drawing the car in to the side of
the road, they stepped out and started their climb.

The path was rough and winding. Once or twice they lost it, but,
after a little searching, struck it again farther up. The general
direction it took was southeast, and Dick noticed with satisfaction
that it seemed to lead with more or less directness, toward the heights
surrounding the stone house. On the side of the mountains was a fair
amount of vegetation--small pine trees and some underbrush. Presently,
emerging upon a wide, fairly level spot surrounded by the higher
reaches of mountain, they stopped stock-still in astonishment.

Quite near them was a small cabin, ruined and decayed. It had evidently
been long deserted, and what its former use had been it was impossible
to determine.

It was not upon the cabin, however, that their eyes were fixed in
gaping amazement. It was a question whether they even saw it at first,
so engrossed were they in the intricate mass of rods and metal,
burnished copper and great, wide-spreading planes which lay on the
ground near them, stretched out like an enormous, uncouth bird at rest.

“By George!” the Texan exclaimed. “It’s the flying machine, or I’ll eat
my hat!”

“It certainly looks like it,” Dick returned with much satisfaction.

Then a strange voice sounded from the cabin, and the two Yale men
whirled around instantly in surprise.

“Guessed right the first crack, gents. It sure is a flying machine.”




CHAPTER XVIII.

BERT HOLTON, SPECIAL OFFICER.


Standing in the doorway was a slim, wiry, alert-looking man of
twenty-eight or thirty, dressed in a dark, serviceable suit, with
leather leggings. He leaned carelessly against the sagging doorpost,
a slight smile on his smooth-shaven face, watching them with keen,
snapping black eyes.

“Is this your monoplane?” Dick asked quickly.

“I don’t know anybody that has a better claim to it,” the stranger
answered promptly.

As he glanced again at the aëroplane, Merriwell gave a sigh of relief.
This, then, was what they had seen the night before, and he had quite
misjudged Randolph. The scientist had probably never left his house.

Dick had been so anxious to think the best of Frank’s friend that he
was rejoiced beyond measure to believe that his suppositions to the
contrary were wrong. Then he remembered the lie Randolph had told him.
That, at least, had not been disproved.

“You gents seem mighty interested in my little bird,” the slim man
remarked as he stepped forward and joined them. “Might I inquire if
you’ve happened to see another one around here lately?”

Dick gave a slight start.

“Why do you ask that?” he questioned.

The stranger hesitated.

“I might as well tell you the truth,” he said at length, with a slight
shrug of his shoulders. “I’m about at the end of my rope, and you’re
not apt to help me any unless you know what you’re doing. My name is
Holton--Bert Holton. I’m a special officer from Washington. For about
five months we’ve been trying to run down the cleverest gang of diamond
smugglers that ever tried to beat Uncle Sam. Got on to ’em first
through one of our agents in Europe. Glen is certainly a smart chap; I
don’t know how he smells out some of these cases, but somehow he got
wind of a party that was having a big bunch of rough diamonds cut in
Amsterdam. Didn’t know where they came from, but he got suspicious at
the amount of stones the duck had and wired us when he took passage
direct to Canada.

“We had men on hand to meet the gent, and he was shadowed wherever he
went. He didn’t make any try to cross the border, but took the Canadian
Pacific direct to a farm he had about two hundred miles the other side
of Winnipeg. It was a good seventy-five miles from the State line, and
the fellows didn’t have much difficulty shadowing him. They had their
trouble for their pains, though. The old duck didn’t stir away from his
farm for six weeks, and then what do you suppose he did?”

Merriwell smiled at the fellow’s earnest manner.

“Give it up,” he answered. “What was it?”

“Took ship to the other side and went direct to Paris. This time the
boys over there were ready for him. He stayed two days at one of the
big hotels and then went to Amsterdam. While at Paris he was seen
talking with a big, rough-looking fellow who looked like a Dutchman.
After Carleton--that was the name of the Canadian guy--left Paris, this
Dutchman was followed until he got aboard a steamer bound for South
Africa. At Amsterdam, Carleton trots right off to his diamond cutter,
leaves a lot of rough stones with him, and sails for home with another
bunch of cut and polished sparklers. It was a cute game, and Heaven
only knows how long they’d been playing it.

“Well, sir, that chap had the whole department guessing. Try as they
would, they couldn’t catch him with the goods. Of course, they couldn’t
touch him on British soil; he had a perfect right to have bushels of
diamonds there if he wanted to. But there was a bunch of inspectors
watching him and all his friends, that pretty near started a riot among
the people thereabouts. Nothing doing, though. He never went near the
line; and if he had, it wouldn’t have done him much good, with the
country a wilderness for hundreds of miles.

“Finally I was put on the job, and after the fellow’s third trip across
the pond--he must have brought back half a million in diamonds, all
told--I got wise to their little game. It certainly was the slickest
thing you ever heard of, though I’d been kind of expecting something of
that sort ever since airships began doing stunts in the air.”

A look of intense interest leaped into Merriwell’s face.

“What!” he exclaimed. “You mean that they brought the diamonds across
the line with an aëroplane?”

“That’s what,” nodded Holton. “Of course Carleton wouldn’t let us on
his property, so we couldn’t look around much. He had a lot of fierce
dogs, and the place was full of man traps and all sorts of riggings
like that. But I found out afterward that the whole side of one of his
barns was removable, so when the aëroplane came at night it landed in
the upper part of the barn and nobody was the wiser. He’d load up with
the sparklers and slide out the next dark night that came along. The
only way I got onto the game was by keeping watch all night at the edge
of the farm, and at last I saw the thing swoop down and land somewhere
among the buildings.

“I beat it back home and had a talk with the chief, who decided that
the only way to catch them with the goods was in another aëroplane.
You see, nobody had the least idea where he went after he crossed the
border. So he bought a good model on the quiet, and I took some lessons
running it. In a couple of weeks I could handle it pretty fair, and it
was shipped to Winnipeg and assembled there. I had the dickens of a
job finding a place near Carleton’s to keep it, but finally located an
out-of-the-way barn that I rented and fixed up. When the machine was
installed there, I went back to watching again.

“I hadn’t been at it long before he slid in one night, and don’t you
believe that I wasn’t ready for flight then. He stayed over one night,
but the next he was off just after dark, and me after him. I thought
he was never going to stop flying. We made about fifty miles an hour,
and by daybreak I figured we must be somewhere in Wyoming. He landed in
the mountains just as the dawn began to break, and I dropped down a few
miles away.

“At dark I was ready again, up in the air circling around. He made for
this place straight as a string, swooped down a little after midnight,
and then blamed if I didn’t lose him. Seemed as if the earth had just
opened and swallowed him up, and I haven’t seen hide or hair of him
since. You see, I’m up against it for fair, and when one of you gents
says, ‘it’s _the_ airship,’ like as though you’d seen one around here
before, I thought perhaps you’d glimpsed the other fellow’s, and maybe
you could help me out.”

As he finished, the young inspector looked inquiringly from one to the
other of the two Yale men. He retained his air of careless nonchalance,
but only by a palpable effort. Deep down underneath it there was an
expression of anxious appeal in his eyes. It was quite evident that he
was, as he had said, “up against it for fair”; otherwise he would never
have confided so promptly in two total strangers, and Dick had a very
strong inclination to help him out. But could he?

Not being in the least slow, Merriwell had at once sensed the entire
situation. The mystery of Scott Randolph was a mystery no longer. Bert
Holton’s straightforward story had cleared it up completely. He was a
smuggler, pure and simple. Amazingly clever, to be sure, and conducting
his operations on a huge scale, he was none the less a smuggler, and
his extremely plausible story of manufacturing diamonds had been made
up out of whole cloth to cover his real doings.

A faint flush mounted into Dick’s face as he realized how he had been
duped, and for a moment he would have given a good deal to be able to
put this clever officer on Randolph’s trail. But could he? There was
that unfortunate word of honor which he had given and which he could
not break. Moreover, such was Scott Randolph’s extraordinary charm of
manner and likableness that, in spite of everything, Merriwell did not
quite like the notion of turning him over to the law.

It was Buckhart who solved the problem. Bound by no promise of silence,
knowing nothing of the diamond hoax, his mind was so full of what they
had seen the night before that the consequence of his words did not
occur to him before he blurted them out.

“Why, sure, bucko,” he said quickly. “We saw an airship fly out of
these very mountains last night.”

A gleam of excitement leaped into Holton’s keen eyes.

“You did?” he cried. “What time? Which way did it go?”

“About eleven o’clock,” the Texan answered promptly, “It flew
northward.”

Holton made a despairing gesture with his hands.

“He’s gone back to Carleton’s,” he exclaimed. “By George! He’s given me
the slip! If I’m not the worst kind of a lunkhead!”

“I reckon not,” Brad put in quickly. “He came back again in about
thirty minutes.”

“Are you sure?” Holton asked doubtfully.

“Yep; we saw it plain. He must have gone twelve or fifteen miles, and
then we saw him flash some lights like signals. Pretty quick after they
stopped the machine came back again to the place where it started from.”

“And where was that?” the officer asked eagerly. “Say, Jack, haven’t
you any idea at all who it belongs to?”

“We thought it was Randolph,” Buckhart returned promptly. “He’s the
fellow that lives in that stone house with barred windows and a steel
door.”

“Never heard of him,” Holton said quickly. “I’m a stranger here, you
know. It sounds good, though. How do you get to it?”

“Go down to Bonnet Trail and walk toward Denver,” the Texan answered.
“In about half a mile you come to a narrow road on your right.
Randolph’s place is at the end of that road, not more than a quarter of
a mile----”

He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on Dick’s face. It was calm and
impassive, but there must have been something there which made the big
Westerner think that perhaps he had been saying too much. He hesitated
for a moment and then went on rather lamely:

“Of course, I’m not at all certain that it was his aëroplane. It came
from near the house, but it might have belonged to some one else.”

“All the same, I think I’ll look the gent up,” Holton remarked. “It’s
the only clue I’ve had, and it sounds pretty good to me.”

There was silence for a few moments, then Merriwell glanced suddenly at
the special officer.

“Are these monoplanes hard to manage?” he asked.

“Why, no, not very,” Holton answered. “The control is very simple, once
you’ve got the hang of it. I’d rather manipulate a monoplane than a
biplane any day. Ever been up in one?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to,” Dick answered. “I’ve done something
with gliders at college. The principle is pretty much the same, isn’t
it?”

“Exactly. Some people seem to have the idea that you get along by
flapping the planes like the wings of a bird, whereas they are almost
immovable. Of course, they can be deflected or depressed according as
you rise or descend, but the only thing that keeps you going is the
revolution of the propeller. If the engine should stop, you’d be turned
into a simple glider. Even then, you wouldn’t go down with a smash, but
by a proper manipulation of the plane and rudders, you could glide on a
long, easy curve, and could almost choose your own spot for alighting.”

“I see,” Dick said. “The two rudders are controlled by levers, I
suppose.”

“Sure.”

Holton stepped to the rear of the aëroplane and Merriwell followed him
interestedly.

“Here’s the horizontal rudder,” the officer explained, pointing out
the two smaller, parallel planes which were attached to the extreme
end of the light frame that protruded from the body of the aëroplane
like an enormously long tail. “By a system of wires and pulleys, it is
connected with the lever next to the seat. You pull that lever forward
and the rudder is thrown upward, inclining the big plane so that the
air strikes it underneath and drives it upward. In the same way when
the lever is thrown back, the plane is deflected the other way and the
machine descends. In flying it’s always necessary to give the plane the
least possible upward inclination, so as to get the full benefit of the
air striking against it.”

Merriwell nodded understandingly.

“This rudder above it is the vertical rudder, I suppose,” he said. “It
looks exactly like the rudder on a boat.”

“It is like it, and acts the same way. You use that in making a turn,
and it is controlled by the lever next to the other one. Pushed
forward, it turns the rudder to the right, backward, to the left. When
you’re flying straight ahead it’s kept upright, of course.”

He pulled a worn, red leather notebook from his pocket and slipped off
the rubber band.

“It’s this way,” he went on, as he drew a simple diagram on one of the
pages.

Dick bent his head over the book, while Holton explained in detail
the principle of rudder control, illustrating his meaning with rough
sketches. When he had finished, the Yale man straightened up and looked
again at the machine.

“It’s quite as simple as I thought,” he said slowly. “I believe I could
operate it with a little practice. Eight-cylinder engine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and it’s a little beauty,” the officer said enthusiastically.
“I’ve never had a bit of trouble worth speaking about. It’s a French
make and only weighs a fraction under three pounds per horse power. It
drives the crank shaft, which runs under the seat out to the propeller
in front.”

Dick examined the engine closely. It was beautifully made and took up a
surprisingly small space.

Seeing his interest and his quickness of comprehension, Holton, who was
an enthusiast, pointed out the various parts, and at the end of half an
hour the Yale man understood it thoroughly.

“I suppose you’d have to have some kind of a start to make an ascension
from here, wouldn’t you?” he asked.

“All you’d need would be some one to loosen the anchor rope which I’ve
tied to that tree over there, and give you a good, running shove,”
Holton said. “Of course, you’d get your engine going first and the
plane and horizontal rudder inclined properly. You see, with these
light pneumatic wheels underneath, it’s no trouble at all for one man
to give you the necessary starting velocity. Sometimes you don’t even
need that, but can start yourself, especially if you’re on a slight
incline. That’s the sort of place I usually try to pick out when I come
down.”

He hesitated for an instant. He was plainly an enthusiastic aviator.

“I’d like to make a short ascension and show you how it works,” he
said, “but I don’t dare to. That fellow doesn’t know I’m anywhere
around, but if I went up now, he’d spot me in a minute and be on his
guard.”

“Of course he would,” Dick agreed readily. “Perhaps, though, after
you’ve nailed him, you’d be willing to give us an exhibition.”

“Sure thing,” Holton grinned. “Come out and see me to-morrow. Maybe
there’ll be something doing by that time.”

“I will,” Merriwell returned promptly.

Then he turned to Buckhart.

“I guess we might as well be on our way, old fellow,” he said quietly.
“Now that we’ve mastered the principles of flying, there’s nothing to
keep us here. Good-by, Mr. Holton.”

“By-by, fellows,” the officer said warmly as they started down the
slope. “Much obliged for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it,” Brad called back.

They had almost reached Bonnet Trail where they had left the car, when
he stopped suddenly and looked at his companion.

“Say, what about Randolph’s aëroplane that we started to find?” he
inquired. “I never knew you to give up anything as quick as that, pard.”

Dick smiled.

“I gave it up because I didn’t want to find it,” he returned.
“Randolph’s a piker, all right, and deserves to have this fellow Holton
land on his neck; but I’d rather not have anything to do with his
capture.”

The Texan grinned broadly.

“That’s why you looked so blamed serious while I was chattering away
like a dame at a pink tea,” he remarked. “I sure put my foot into it,
didn’t I?”

“Not a bit of it,” Merriwell returned. “I was afraid you were going
further and put him wise to all this talk about diamonds and that sort
of thing. There seems to be no question that he’s the smuggler Holton
is after, but somehow I’d like him to have every chance he can. We were
his guests last night, and he was mighty nice to us; besides, he used
to be a friend of Frank’s, and---- Oh, well, let’s just put him out of
mind. If he gets pinched, all right; if he gets away it will be equally
satisfactory.”

This proved to be easier said than done. After a leisurely luncheon the
two friends took the car again and went for a long drive out toward
Castlerock, from which they did not return until past six. It is safe
to say that half an hour did not pass during the entire afternoon in
which one or the other of them was not thinking of Scott Randolph and
wondering whether Holton had found him, or whether he had escaped, or
what had happened.

Returning to the hotel, Dick drove around to the garage very slowly;
and, instead of running the car in, he slid up to the curb and stopped.
Then he turned in his seat and eyed Buckhart questioningly without
saying a word.

“Well, why not?” the Texan inquired suddenly, apparently apropos of
nothing on earth. “I’m sure curious to know how it all came out.”

Dick laughed as he guided the car slowly down the street again.

“Evidently we haven’t either of us been successful in getting Randolph
out of our heads,” he said. “We’ll just take a run out and see if I can
get hold of my pocketbook this time.”

The swift twilight was just beginning to fall as they hurried up the
narrow track and reached the open space before the stone house.

If they expected to find any signs of life about the place they were
disappointed. The same grim, menacing wall of stone confronted them,
from the same desolate, shadowy background. The steel door was as
tightly closed as ever, the barred windows as expressionless. But wait!
Were they quite the same?

Dick’s eyes were fixed on the end window on the second floor.

“Take a good look at that shutter up there, Brad,” he said in a low
tone. “It looks to me as though it were open about an inch, but this
dim light is beastly deceptive.”

The Texan studied it for an instant.

“You’re right,” he said quickly. “It is open the least bit. Some one’s
been there since this morning, all right.”

Merriwell stepped to the door and hammered loudly on it.

Five minutes passed in unbroken silence. Then he beat another
thunderous tattoo on it, long and loud.

Still no response. The house was silent as a tomb.

The Yale man stepped under the window and looked keenly up at it. Was
it possible that some one was watching them through that tiny crack? If
so, the rapidly falling darkness hid him effectually. With a sigh of
regret, Merriwell stepped back, his foot striking a small object on the
ground.

Instantly he pounced on it and held it up.

It was a small, worn notebook, bound in red leather and kept together
by a rubber band.

For a moment both men gazed in tense silence at the commonplace thing.
Then Dick slipped off the band quickly and opened the book.

As his eyes glanced swiftly over the first page, even the semidarkness
did not hide the sudden pallor which spread over his face.

“Heavens above!” he breathed in a horror-stricken voice.

“What is it, pard?” Brad asked anxiously. “What has happened?”

Unconsciously Merriwell clenched one hand tightly and his teeth came
together with a click.

“Randolph has shut Holton into the air-tight room,” he said slowly.

“What!” gasped the Texan, as though unable to believe his ears.
“Deliberately left him there, you mean?”

“Yes,” Dick said in a hard, dry voice. “Listen.”

He bent over the notebook, barely able to distinguish the scrawling
words, in the failing light.

“‘He caught me by a trick,’” the Yale man read slowly. “‘Says he’s
going to shut me in a room where the air will last two hours and no
longer. If anybody finds this, for God’s sake get me out. I’ve only
a minute to write this and throw it out of the window. Don’t waste a
minute, but hurry. I can’t die like a rat in a trap. HOL----’”

The note ended in an irregular line as though the writer had been
suddenly interrupted.

The Texan’s ruddy face was pale as death and in his eyes there came a
look of horror.

“Two hours,” he exclaimed in a strange voice--“two hours to live!”

Dick threw out one hand in a gesture of despair.

“And those two hours may be up!” he cried. “No one knows how long ago
this note was written!”




CHAPTER XIX.

THE RACE IN THE CLOUDS.


The words were scarcely spoken when, from the cliffs above them, came
the familiar muffled purr of the gasoline engine.

Instantly a look of hope flashed into Dick’s face as he quickly
turned his head upward. Scott Randolph had not yet departed. He might
be stopped--must be stopped--and induced to return and release his
prisoner. He could not possibly realize what an awful thing he was
doing.

The humming increased; there was that same rustling, creaking sound
which had attracted their first sight of the aëroplane, and then the
great black shape appeared slowly and majestically from among the
mountains.

Dick placed his hands trumpetwise to his mouth.

“Randolph!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Come back! You must
come back! It is I--Merriwell. You must not leave that man there!
Randolph! Randolph!”

His voice rang out clearly on the still night air, and the echoes came
back mockingly from the gloomy, towering cliffs. But Scott Randolph
paid no heed. The course of the black aëroplane did not waver by
so much as a hair’s breadth as it sped on with rapidity increasing
momentum, presently vanishing to the northward.

Dick dropped his hands despairingly at his sides.

“What a monster,” he exclaimed. “What an inhuman monster! I wouldn’t
have believed it possible.”

“Isn’t there something we can do?” Buckhart asked. “We just can’t stand
here and let that fellow suffocate. Don’t you suppose there’s some way
of finding the spring? Or we might tear down the wall.”

Though he spoke eagerly, there was not much conviction in his voice.

“By the time we’d found a way into the house the man would be dead,”
Dick answered. “We couldn’t tear down the wall in time. No Randolph is
the only one who can save him. He must be brought back; but how--how to
do it?”

He was thinking rapidly. There must be way--some way. But there was so
little time.

Suddenly he gave a quick exclamation.

“I’ve got it! By Jove, I’ve got it! Come along--quick! There isn’t a
second to lose.”

He turned and flew toward the trail as fast as he could get over the
ground, with Buckhart close at his heels. Into the car he sprang and
started the engine.

“Never mind the lights!” he cried, as Brad hesitated. “Jump in--quick!”

The Texan leaped up beside him, and a moment later the _Wizard_ was
hitting the high places on Bonnet Trail, heading away from Denver.

To the bewildered Westerner it seemed as though they had scarcely
started before Dick jammed on the emergency and leaped from the car. He
darted up the steep, rocky slope, Brad still keeping close behind him.
At last a glimmering of what his friend meant to do flashed into the
Texan’s mind and turned his blood cold.

“Say, pard,” he gasped. “You’re--not going--to monkey with--that
airship?”

“I’ve got to!” came through Merriwell’s gritted teeth. “It’s the only
way.”

There was silence for a brief space as they climbed rapidly.

“But you’ll be killed,” Buckhart panted in an unsteady voice. “You’ve
never run one in your life.”

Dick laughed.

“Don’t worry, old fellow,” he said. “It isn’t as bad as that. I may not
catch Randolph, but I learned enough about the thing this morning to
keep myself from being killed--I hope.”

A moment later they burst through the bushes and Dick gave a sigh of
relief as the shadowy bulk of the aëroplane loomed before him.

“I wasn’t quite sure whether Holton had used it or not,” he said,
hurrying toward it. “Now, Brad, let’s get busy. Just hold a match to
that burner while I turn on the prestolite.”

The next instant the bright light blazed forth, and Dick proceeded
methodically to prepare for flight. He passed his hands swiftly over
the steering levers to make sure which was which. Then he turned
on the gas and plugged into the coil. Setting spark and throttle
experimentally, he started the engine. She pounded a little at first,
but he quickly pulled down the throttle a trifle and soon had her
running smoothly.

That done, he pushed the lever governing the horizontal rudder forward.
The vertical lever he left upright.

Swiftly he thought over Holton’s instructions. There was nothing more
to be done, and, with a last look at the engine, which was running
perfectly, he climbed into the seat.

For a second he sat there motionless. It must be confessed that his
pulse beat rapidly, and he felt an odd, unpleasant tightening at his
throat as he realized what he was about to attempt.

Then the thought of Holton, slowly smothering in that air-tight room,
made him press his lips tightly together as his left hand reached out
and closed over the steering lever. The propeller in front of him was
revolving swiftly with a whirring sound, and it seemed as though he
could feel the aëroplane tugging gently at the anchoring rope, as if it
were anxious to be off.

“Loosen the rope, Brad, and give me a good, running shove!” Merriwell
said quietly.

The Texan stifled with an effort an almost irresistible impulse to drag
his chum off the seat and prevent him forcibly from going to what he
considered almost certain death. Then he made a last appeal.

“Dick, you ought not to do this,” he said, in a low voice. “It’s
madness!”

“I must, old fellow,” Merriwell returned quietly.

Somehow the confidence in Merriwell’s voice seemed to put heart into
the big Texan.

Turning, he walked to the rear of the machine and slipped the hook
of the anchor rope out of the ring. Then he took a good hold of the
framework and ran forward, pushing the aëroplane before him.

As it rose with a long, sweeping glide, Dick caught his breath suddenly.

For an instant he seemed as though he were standing still and that the
earth was dropping swiftly away from him--dropping, and at the same
time rushing backward. He wanted to look back at Buckhart, but he did
not dare. It was as though the machine was poised in so fine a balance
that the least motion on his part would upset the equilibrium.

The big Texan was left standing in the centre of the clearing, his
hands clenched so tightly that the nails cut into the flesh, his face
white and drawn, with great beads of perspiration standing out on his
forehead, his whole frame trembling like a leaf. As he watched with
a strained and breathless eagerness, the aëroplane soared upward and
away, carrying the best friend he had in the world swiftly out of sight
in that perilous race through the darkness for a human life.

It took but a moment for Dick to recover his coolness and presence of
mind. Then he realized that he was headed in quite the wrong direction.

Instinctively he felt that it might not be safe to attempt a turn
with the monoplane still gliding upward, so very slowly he drew the
horizontal lever toward him until he was going nearly on a level. Then
he clasped the vertical lever and pushed it forward, little by little.

Luckily there was scarcely any wind, and the aëroplane responded
instantly by turning in a wide, majestic circle. As soon as the
propeller was headed northward, he pulled the lever back into the
upright position, with a sigh of satisfaction. So far, there had been
not the slightest hitch.

Presently he noticed that the monoplane was steadily increasing
in speed, but somehow, this did not trouble him in the least. He
was rapidly gaining confidence in himself and in the strange air
craft, which was momentarily proving herself so much more steady and
controllable than he had ever imagined she could be.

Then, too, there was an extraordinary sense of exhilaration in that
rapid flight through the night air. A delicious feeling of lightness,
of buoyancy unlike anything he had ever known. And stranger than all
else was the amazing lack of fear. It did not seem as though he could
possibly fall, or if he did, he felt that he would float to earth with
the lightness of a thistledown.

He leaned forward and deflected the powerful searchlight, but he
could see nothing. He must have gone considerably higher than he had
realized, and promptly he pushed back the horizontal lever.

The result was startling. The monoplane gave a swift downward plunge
which nearly threw him from his seat, so unexpected was it. With a
jerk, he thrust the lever forward, and the craft slowly regained its
equilibrium and began an upward glide.

A little experimenting showed him the danger of dropping too suddenly,
and he soon discovered how to reach a lower level by a series of short
gradual glides, instead of too abrupt a descent.

After a little he tried the wonderfully powerful searchlight again
and was relieved when he found that the earth was clearly visible. He
must have been at an elevation of little more than a thousand feet,
and as he swept along at the speed of an express train, the plains and
isolated farms flitted by under him with the silent, uncanny unreality
of a dream.

Then he flashed the light ahead, but could see nothing of Randolph’s
aëroplane. He increased the speed a little, and presently he foolishly
raised his head above the wind shield. It cut his skin like alcohol
from an atomizer on a raw surface and made him draw quickly back into
shelter again.

“Not for mine!” he muttered. “A little more of that would flay a fellow
alive.”

He shot the searchlight before him and this time the powerful rays fell
on something in the air far ahead of him--a black, indefinite shape,
barely within the range of the reflector. His heart leaped joyfully.

“Randolph!” he muttered. “I’m gaining!”

Almost before he could realize it the black air craft leaped into vivid
relief, he could distinguish clearly every rod, almost every tiny wire,
even the white face of Randolph shown clear in the bright light. Then
the black monoplane flashed by him with throbbing engine and was gone.

“Great Cæsar!” he gasped in amazement. “He’s going back! What does that
mean?”

His first natural impulse was to turn swiftly as he might have done in
a motor car, but he caught himself in time and remembered the need of
extreme caution.

First pulling down the speed of the engine, he moved the vertical lever
slowly, and executed a wide, graceful curve. Once headed southward, he
increased the speed and started on the return journey at a rate that
made the air hum.

What could be the cause of this sudden change on the part of Scott
Randolph? Was it possible that he had relented and was voluntarily
going back to release Holton? Had he come to a full realization of
the awful thing he had done? Merriwell sincerely hoped so, but he did
not relax his vigilance in the least. He meant to follow the other
aëroplane to the bitter end, and his searchlight still shot its bright
rays straight ahead as he strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of
the shadowy craft.

Before long he saw the lights of Denver far in the distance, but on his
right. At once he throttled down on the engine and swerved to the west
a little. In returning, he had gone too far east. When he was finally
headed in the right direction, he throttled the engine still further
and turned the flashlight earthward.

In an instant he had his bearings and shut off all power. The propeller
slowly ceased its revolutions, and the aëroplane, with horizontal
rudder depressed a trifle, glided downward.

Randolph’s aëroplane was nowhere in sight, but the bright gleam of
light from the door of the house, showed Merriwell that something
out of the way had happened, and he resolved to waste no time, but
drop down there. He landed in fair shape, but he had not calculated on
the retained velocity of the monoplane, and the craft rushed forward
on its light wheels, striking against the front of the house with a
splintering crash which threw Dick headforemost out of his seat to the
ground.

He was up in an instant. Running into the hall, he dashed up the
stairs. The first person that met his eager gaze was Bert Holton, lying
on a couch in the upper hall, gasping painfully for breath. Then,
standing by the open door of the air-tight room, he saw Scott Randolph,
his face pale, but seeming otherwise cool and collected.

“I’m very glad you’ve come, Merriwell,” he said quietly. “You will be
able to look after Mr. Holton. He is somewhat in want of air just now,
but will soon recover.”

He hesitated for an instant, still looking straight into Merriwell’s
eyes.

“I think I have you to thank for saving me from myself,” he said
slowly. “But for you I should have done something which would have made
the remainder of my life a living hell.”

There was a puzzled look on Dick’s face.

“I don’t think I quite understand,” he said. “You came back of your own
accord. What had I to do with it?”

“I did not turn until I saw your searchlight,” Randolph explained. “It
was that which brought me to my senses. The moment I saw it flash far
behind me, I knew that another aëroplane was following me. I knew there
was no other around here but Holton’s, and he was--er--locked up. It
puzzled me for a moment, and then the realization suddenly came to me
that it must be you. I don’t know just what made me think so, but the
conviction was a very positive one.

“You had found out about Holton in some way, and had taken the only
possible means of following me to bring me back. And at the thought
of the tremendous risk you were running to save the life of a total
stranger, I seemed to realize for the first time what a horrible thing
I had done. I turned at once and started back. I was just in time,
thank God! Holton was almost gone.”

He paused and then went on in a lighter tone:

“I leave him to your care. I cannot stay. I can only say that I am glad
to have met you, Dick Merriwell. You’re a thoroughbred, if there ever
was one, and I shall not soon forget you. After what I have done, you
probably won’t shake hands, so I’ll just say good-by.”

Without another word, he wheeled and started down the hall.

Holton struggled to his feet.

“Catch him!” he gasped thickly. “Don’t let him get away! He must not
get away!”

Dick ran down the hall with the officer stumbling after him.

“Stop, Randolph!” the Yale man cried.

The loud slam of a door was his only answer. It was the door at the end
of the hall which Randolph had told them the night before led into a
closet.

Dashing forward, Dick tore it open and tripped against the first step
of some stairs leading upward. Without a moment’s hesitation, he
hurried up them. It was slow work, for the way was pitch dark and he
had to trust to his sense of feeling alone. His outstretched hands
touched the rough, uneven surface of rock on either side. He seemed to
be in a natural tunnel which wound along with many twists and turns,
but always steeply upward. It had been fitted with rough wooden stairs,
but that was all.

On he went, and on and on. He felt as though he must be almost among
the clouds before the cool night wind began to blow upon his face. At
last he emerged on a flat, rock-floored surface, walled and roofed with
timbers, but open in the front.

The hum of a gasoline engine was in his ears, the whirring purr of an
aëroplane propeller; and, as he ran forward to the open front of the
shed, he saw the shadowy bulk of the black craft spread out before him
on the flat, rocky surface.

Even as it flashed into view, it began to move swiftly down a steep
incline.

“Randolph!” the Yale man cried. “Stop!”

But Scott Randolph paid no heed. As Dick sprang out on the rocky
platform, the great black aëroplane launched itself from the cliff,
and, gathering speed with every moment, it soared upward and northward,
vanishing into the night. Presently the muffled throb of the engine
died away and all was still.

“He’s gone!” almost sobbed a voice at Merriwell’s elbow. “I’ll never
get my hookers on him again.”

It was Bert Holton, weak and exhausted by his hard climb, but rapidly
recovering in the cool night air.

“I’m afraid not,” Dick answered slowly. “I don’t think he’ll ever come
back here.”

But somehow, deep down in his heart, he was not so sorry.

Presently he turned and looked about him. They were standing on the top
of the cliff with only the glittering stars above them. It was a wide,
rocky, flat surface--an ideal spot from which to launch an aëroplane,
sloping sharply as it did, toward the outer edge.

Over a small part of this surface a rough shed had been built. The roof
was completely covered with boulders, and when the great, gray painted
doors, which closed the front, were shut, it would have taken a keen
eye to detect the presence of that ingenious shelter for the aëroplane.

“How did he catch you?” Dick asked, turning to Holton.

“I was too blamed cocksure,” the officer answered bitterly. “He was
wise to me all the time. When I come snooping around the house I finds
the door open, and like a fool, in I walks. Next thing I knew he had a
gun at my head.”

“But how did he know you were around?” Merriwell interrupted.

“One of his pals piped him off the other night,” Holton explained.
“That was the signaling you saw. The guy had seen me following, and put
Randolph wise. That’s why he came back so soon. Well, he politely tells
me what he’s going to do, and then locks me into a room while he gets
his air-tight place ready. I unfastened the shutter, but there was no
way to get out through the bars. So I hauls out my notebook and scrawls
a note. You got it, didn’t you?”

Dick nodded.

“I hadn’t more than tossed it out the window, when he comes back and
makes me go into that room. I knew from the look in his eyes that he’d
shoot me then and there for two cents. He was just itching to do it.
Otherwise, I’d have made a fight for it. But I had a little hope that
maybe you or some one would find the book and get me out.”

He paused and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“I can’t describe the rest,” he went on slowly. “It was awful. I
never hope to go through a thing like that again. Say, Jack, was that
straight what he said about your taking the monoplane and going after
him?”

Dick smiled rather ruefully.

“It was,” he acknowledged. “And I’m very much afraid I smashed
something when I landed outside.”

“Oh, that be hanged!” Holton exclaimed. “I don’t care a rip if it’s
smashed to bits. But, by George! That was a gritty thing to do! You’ve
sure got pluck. Did you have any trouble?”

“Not a bit after I got the hang of it,” Dick answered. “But I certainly
had a sinking feeling when I first went up. Let’s go down and see how
much damage has been done.”

They felt their way to the stairs and slowly descended. About halfway
down they were surprised to hear some one stumbling toward them. The
next moment a big body bumped into Dick and a pair of arms closed
around him with a strength that nearly took his breath away.

“Thunderation, pard!” came in the Texan’s voice. “I’m sure a whole
lot glad to get my paws on you. I could rise up on my hind legs and
howl like a wolf. You had me near off my trolley till I saw your light
coming back. I beat it over here quick. Did you catch him?”

“I did not,” Dick returned, his hand resting on his chum’s shoulder.
“He came back of his own free will and let Holton loose. More than
that, he was slick enough to get away again in the aëroplane before we
could stop him.”

They had reached the lighted hall by this time, and started down the
main stairs.

“What do you know about that!” Buckhart exclaimed. “He’s sure a
slippery one.”

He looked at Dick with a grin.

“Say, pard,” he drawled, “tell us, honest, how you like flying?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Four days later Dick Merriwell read the following item in a Denver
newspaper with absorbing interest.

“Miles City, Montana:--Word was brought to this city last night of the
discovery, by a party of prospectors in the mountains of Cook County,
of a wrecked aëroplane. The affair has been the cause of a good deal of
curiosity and speculation, since the presence of an air craft in this
vicinity was totally unsuspected. The machine was completely wrecked,
having apparently struck the rocks from a great height, so that
scarcely a part remained entire. A curious feature which will, perhaps,
lead to its identification, was the fact that every portion of the
machine, planes, metalwork, framework, and even the engine, had been
painted black. There were no signs of the unfortunate occupant, but it
is hardly to be hoped that he escaped the fall alive, the supposition
being that his body was eaten by wolves.”

Dick gazed silently out of the window of the Denver Club, where he was
taking lunch.

“I wonder!” he murmured presently. “Eaten by wolves, eh? I don’t
believe Scott Randolph was the man to be eaten by wolves.”




CHAPTER XX.

THE OUTLAWS.


Bob Harrison, manager of the famous “Outlaws,” was angry. His swarthy
face expressing intense exasperation, he glared at the tall, quiet
young man before him and flourished a huge fist in the air.

“Now, look here, Loring,” he rasped, “what do you take me for? Do you
think I’m an easy mark? I’m carrying around the greatest independent
baseball team ever organized, every man a star with a reputation, and
it costs me money. The expense is terrific. The terms on which I agreed
to play your old Colorado Springs bunch were perfectly understood
between us when we made arrangements over the phone--two-thirds of
the gate money to the winner; one-third minus local expenses, such as
advertising, the sum paid for the use of the park and so forth, to the
losers. You know this was distinctly understood; now you’re trying to
squeal. You’ve got us here in Colorado Springs ready to play to-morrow,
and you think you can force me into divvying up with you.”

“I deny,” retorted the manager of the Colorado Springs team, “that
I entered into such an arrangement as you claim I did. If you can
prove----”

“Blazes! You know I can’t prove it. I took you for a man of your word.
I had an open date for to-morrow; so did you. I phoned you, and after
we had fixed it up you said to come on. Now we’re here, and you want to
make it dead certain that you’re going to get one-half the pie. You’ve
got something of a team, haven’t you? You think your bunch can play
baseball, don’t you? Well, if you can beat us, I’m willing you should
lug off two-thirds of the gate money. Such an arrangement as that makes
an object to work for. With an equal division, either of us will be as
well off financially whether he wins or loses.”

“You called me on the phone, Harrison. You were mighty anxious for
the game; I wasn’t particular. The open date to-morrow meant an
opportunity for my boys to rest up, and they know it. Hot weather and
a long, grilling pull at the game threatens to make ’em go stale. My
pitching staff is on the blink. There’s only one slabman left in good
condition--and he might be better.”

Harrison looked the local manager up and down, as if taking his measure.

“You’re just about built to run a third-rate bush league team,” he
sneered. “This is the first time I’ve got bitten by anything as small
as you.”

Loring flushed to the roots of his hair.

“You’re an insolent, coarse-grained bully, Harrison,” he said hotly;
“but you’ll find you can’t browbeat me. The Springs will rest
to-morrow, and you’ll do the same as far as I am concerned. It’s off.”

“Quitter!” snarled Harrison, choking with excess of anger.

With a shrug of his shoulders Loring turned and left the furious man
there in the lobby of the hotel, spluttering and snarling his wrath.

The Outlaws, managed by Harrison, was indeed a famous baseball
organization, being composed entirely of men who had worn Big League
uniforms. Harrison had been the manager of the Menockets in a certain
Middle Western League, which had blown up in the midst of a season,
the cause of the disaster being reckless extravagance and astonishing
lack of business methods on the part of various managers in the league.
The rivalry had been intense, and the salaries paid not a few of the
players who had deserted the Big League teams, something to gasp at.

Stories of these “plums” waiting to be plucked had caused a host of
fast players on the leading teams of the country to disregard contracts
and hike for the land of promise. In most instances, it is true, these
men had been disgruntled and fancied they were justified in their acts.
Some claimed to have escaped from a slavery almost as bad as that which
once nearly disrupted the Union. In almost every instance, doubtless,
the lure which drew them like a magnet was the prospect of big money
quickly and easily obtained. The get-rich-quick microbe lurks in the
blood of almost every human being.

But the bubble had burst. The Outlaw League had gone to smash. Nearly a
hundred clever baseball players had found themselves out of a job, with
frosty weather and the end of the season far away.

Then it was that Harrison had conceived the idea of making up a nine
picked from the cream of the different teams; and to encourage him he
had been able to arrange in advance a game with St. Louis, in case he
could bring such an organization of stars. Of the Menocket players he
had retained Smiling Joe Brinkley, Nutty McLoon, and South-paw Pope,
the latter being a wizard who had made an amazing record in giving his
opponents only one hit in the two games which he had pitched for the
New York “Yankees.”

Then, with his head swelled, Pope had quarreled with nearly every man
on the team, finishing up in a fist fight with two of them, which
resulted in his suspension. Raw to the bone, he grabbed at the bait
which Bob Harrison flung in his direction at that psychological moment.

Smiling Joe had worn a Boston uniform, and had declined to go back to
the bush for another season when a veteran second sacker had crowded
him out.

McLoon, a great hitter and wonderful centre fielder, was said to be a
bit off in the top story, and for three seasons the brand of the Outlaw
had been upon him, while he wandered from one unrecognized league to
another. He was remembered, however, for his remarkable hitting and
base running one season with St. Louis.

The other men, gathered up from the various disbanded teams, were Long
Tom Hix, once with Cleveland; Gentle Willie Touch, who had worn a
Louisville uniform; Grouch Kennedy, a former New York “Giant”; Buzzsaw
Stover, from smoky Pittsburg; and Dead-eye Jack Rooney, who pretended
to be not over-proud of the fact that he was an ex-“Trolley Dodger.”

Among the reserves were Biff Googins, pinch hitter from Boston and
general all-round man; Strawberry Lane, a pitcher who had lost his
trial game for the Quaker City Americans and found it impossible to
endure the gruelling of his teammates; and Wopsy Bill Brown, who had
spent a season on the bench with the Chicago Nationals without being
given a chance to pitch a ball over the plate.

With this aggregation Harrison had proceeded to make monkeys of St.
Paul’s representative nine. Indeed, the “Outlaws” simply toyed with
their opponents in that game, winning at will.

Then it was that Harrison conceived the idea of touring with his team
of wonders. Being a clever advertiser and press agent, he managed to
get a great deal of space in the newspapers, and it was not long before
immense crowds of baseball enthusiasts turned out wherever the Outlaws
appeared.

To his deep satisfaction, Harrison found himself pocketing more money
than he had dreamed of looking upon while representing Menocket. He
was able to make a good thing, financially, while paying his players
salaries which satisfied them.

In the matter of winning games the Outlaws seemed almost invincible.
It is true that they dropped a game occasionally, but even then it was
suspected that this came about through design rather than necessity.
Through the Middle West, the Southwest, and along the Pacific Coast
they toured triumphantly, boosted not only by Harrison’s clever
advertising, but by sporting writers everywhere.

Several times, through the efforts of minor league managers to gobble
up certain men desired from the Outlaws, Harrison found it necessary
to fight in order to hold his team together. He sought to impress upon
the men the belief that by sticking to him they would eventually do far
better than by accepting the bait of the minor league magnets. He was
continually hinting of a “plum” that was coming to them.

Furthermore, he satisfied them that, one and all, they were Big League
timber, and that he possessed the ability to put them back into the
company where they belonged.

While Harrison stood there, snarling and glaring at the back of the
departing manager, he was approached by Dick Merriwell, who was
stopping at the hotel, in Colorado Springs, which was the first stop,
after Denver.

“I beg your pardon,” said Dick.

“Yah!” rasped the manager of the Outlaws, turning fiercely.

The other smiled upon him with serene good nature.

“I chanced to overhear a little of your conversation with Charlie
Loring,” said he. “It was quite without intent upon my part, I assure
you; you were both speaking somewhat loudly. As your subject was
baseball, I couldn’t help feeling some interest, for I’m a baseball
enthusiast.”

“Yah!” repeated Harrison. “Perhaps you’re one of Loring’s cubs?”

“No, indeed.”

“Belong here?”

“No, sir.”

“Sorry. I wanted to tell you what I thought of that yellow quitter,
for is he a quitter. I’ve been to the trouble and expense of bringing
my team here to play a game of baseball to-morrow. Now it’s off--off
because that man won’t stand by his verbal agreement. It will cost me a
tidy little sum.”

This thought added fuel to his rage, and he swore again, causing the
hotel clerk to glower upon him from the desk. Fortunately, there were
few guests in the lobby of the hotel.

The young man seemed more amused than disturbed by this burst of
violent language.

“The best-laid plans of mice and men go wrong,” he observed.

“I hope you don’t call Loring a mouse,” rasped Harrison. “He isn’t big
enough to be a mouse; he’s a worm. If we could play every day it would
be different; but I’m under heavy expense, and these long jumps add
to the drain. I counted on doing fairly well here at the Springs, for
the place is full of tourists who must be sick of seeing scenery and
itching for diversion of a different sort. Think of that man going back
on his word and trying to get an even split on the gate money! I told
him over the phone that I would only play on the agreement that the
winning team took two-thirds. That was pretty fair, too, considering
that in lots of cases the contract has been for the winners to take
three-fourths and the losers the remainder.”

“Evidently you felt certain of winning.”

Harrison’s lips curled.

“There’s nothing west of the Mississippi we can’t beat three times out
of four,” he declared, “and I’d take my chances on an even break with
anything the other side of the river.”

“You must have a great team.”

“Haven’t you ever heard about us?”

“I think I’ve seen something in the papers about you.”

“I’ve got the fastest independent team ever pulled together in this
country. There isn’t a man in the bunch who can’t step into any of the
Big Leagues and make good. They have played on the big teams, every one
of them.”

“Has-beens?” questioned the young man smilingly.

For a moment it seemed that the manager of the Outlaws would explode
with indignation.

“Has-beens!” he rasped. “Not on your life! Comers, every one.”

“But I inferred they had been canned by the big teams.”

“Canned! Wow! You don’t know what you’re talking about. Not one
big-league manager out of ten knows how to handle an eccentric or
sensitive player. Most of them have the idea that the way to get
baseball out of a man is to pound it into his head that he’s a slob.
They are afraid the new player will get chesty and conceited. Now,
there’s another way to take the conceit out of a youngster without
breaking his spirit. I know how to do it.

“Never mind; it’s my secret. You’ll find my boys pulling together like
clockwork if you ever see them play. They’re fighters, just the same.
They’re out to win, you bet. Sometimes to see them you would think
they were going to eat one another up. ’Sh! It’s all a bluff. They do
that, so they can turn on the opposing players the same way, and it
generally gets the other team going.”

Dick lifted a protesting hand.

“Don’t let me in on too many of your secrets,” he smiled; “for I am
contemplating challenging you to play a game with a team of my own
organizing.”

Bob Harrison was astonished. He stepped back and surveyed the speaker
from head to foot, an amused, incredulous grin breaking over his face.

“You?” he exclaimed. “You were thinking of challenging us?”

“So I said.”

“I thought maybe I misunderstood you.”

“Evidently you didn’t.”

“Where’s your team?”

“Right here in Colorado Springs.”

“Oh, some amateur organization, eh?”

“You might call it that; we wouldn’t call ourselves professionals.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Harrison. “Why, my boy, it would be a joke.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I have an idea that I can get together
nine college baseball players who will make it a fairly interesting
game, if you dare accept my challenge.”

“Dare!” spluttered Harrison. “Why, young fellow, I’d jump at the
opportunity, if there was anything in it. It wouldn’t be worth my time,
however, to play a bunch of kids.”

“You won’t find them kids--not exactly. I presume you’ll admit that
there are some college men who can play baseball.”

“In every way. But the finest college teams have no business with
professionals; in proof of which, consider the result of the regular
yearly Yale-New York game. The ‘Giants’ always have a snap with the
college boys.”

Dick nodded.

“That’s the natural order of things,” he confessed. “The New York team
is made up of the best professionals in the country, and those men
play together year after year until they become a machine. Yale picks
from her undergraduates, and the personnel of the team is constantly
changing. This prevents the collegians from working out a team
organization with the fine points of a big professional nine.

“Nevertheless, year after year New York spots certain promising
youngsters on the college team and attempts to get a line on them. If
those same youngsters could play together season after season under a
crackajack coach, it wouldn’t be long before the Giants would have to
hustle in order to take that spring exhibition game.”

“You seem to know something about baseball,” admitted the manager of
the Outlaws, nodding his head slowly, “and there’s more or less sense
in what you say; but you’re talking about picking up a team here in
Colorado Springs to butt against the acknowledged fastest independent
nine the country has ever seen. You haven’t practiced together, and you
would be rotten on team work.”

“By chance,” said the young man, “I happened to come to Colorado
Springs. With me came some players from my own college team. To our
surprise and pleasure, we found here at the Springs some other men from
the same college team. We’ve nearly all played together. I’m confident
that we can get together a nine that will acquit itself with a certain
amount of credit. In fact. I think we can make you hustle to beat us.”

“You don’t look like a chap with a swelled head; but I’m afraid you’ve
got a touch of it.”

“In that case,” was the laughing retort, “you might do me an eternal
favor by reducing the swelling.”

“I’m not working for the benefit of humanity in general; I work for Bob
Harrison’s pocket.”

“You might be doing that at the same time. You have been well
advertised. Wherever you go people turn out especially to get a look
at your wonderful aggregation of stars. They would do it here, even if
they felt pretty sure that the game might be one-sided. It’s better
than lying idle to-morrow.”

“What’s your name?” demanded Harrison suddenly.

“You may call me Dick.”

“Dick what?”

“Well, Richard Dick--let it go at that for the present.”

“Richard Dick? Odd name. Mr. Dick, what do you reckon you’re going to
get out of this?”

“Sport--that’s my object. If we could beat you, we would get a little
glory also.”

“I should say so! Beat us? Why, boy, you couldn’t pick up a bunch of
college men in America who could do that trick once out of ten times.”

“Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Harrison, that you might possibly have a
slight touch of the swelled head yourself?”

The manager of the Outlaws gasped, frowned, and grinned.

“Of all sassy youngsters, you are certainly the smoothest.”

“I’m not insinuating that you have; but such a thing is possible for a
man of any age and station in life. It is true that young men are far
more often afflicted by it. Now, look here, Mr. Harrison, you’re up
against the necessity of lying idle, accepting Charlie Loring’s terms,
or playing with some other team. I don’t think Loring is anxious to
play for some reason or other. He may have been; perhaps he was when he
phoned you. Isn’t it likely that advisers got at him after he phoned
and made it apparent that he would place the Springs in a ridiculous
light if the game was pulled off and your Outlaws buried him alive?
If he could be sure of the soothing balm of an equal division and a
big pull at the gate money, he might afford to let them laugh; but
to be walloped and get the short end of the finances would make him
ridiculous. Now I’m not afraid of anything of that sort.”

“I should say not! Apparently you’re not afraid of anything at all.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll guarantee to pick up a team to play
you to-morrow, and the winners shall pocket three-fourths of the gate
money, the losers paying all expenses. Can you ask anything more
satisfactory?”

“Nothing except an additional guarantee of two hundred and fifty
dollars.”

“Indeed, you are modest!” scoffed Richard Dick. “You seem to want it
all, and a little something more. But if you think you’re dealing with
a blind sucker, we had better drop the business at once. I’ve told you
I was out for sport, and that will satisfy me. Whatever share of the
gate money might come to me, I’d agree in advance to donate to the
Collins’ Home for Consumptives. I don’t want a dollar above expenses,
and our expenses will be light.”

“You’re certainly not working this deal as a business proposition,”
agreed Harrison. “How do I know you’ll get up the team? How do I know
you’ll play at all? Perhaps you’ll squeal, as Loring did.”

“I’ll agree to place a hundred dollars in the hands of the proprietor
of this hotel, as a forfeit to be paid you in case we don’t play. I
shall ask that you put up a similar amount as a forfeit. The game
shall be advertised at once--as soon as I can make arrangements for
the field. The announcement shall be spread broadcast that a team of
college players will meet your Outlaws to-morrow afternoon. What say
you?”

“It sounds better than nothing,” admitted Harrison slowly. “Of course,
you chaps wouldn’t be much of a drawing card, but we might get out a
fair crowd to see my boys work. Yes, it’s better than nothing.”

“Do you accept?”

“Three-fourths to the winners, and the losers to pay all expenses?”

“Yes.”

“But the grounds--how can you get them?”

“Leave it to me. I happen to know Charlie Loring personally. The local
team will not use the grounds to-morrow. I’m confident I can secure
them.”

“All right,” snapped the manager of the professionals sharply, “it’s
a go. We’ll sign an agreement right away. I have a regular blank
form, which can be filled out in less than a minute. I accept your
proposition that each of us shall place one hundred dollars with the
proprietor of this hotel to stand as a forfeit in case either party
backs down. Come ahead into the writing room.”




CHAPTER XXI.

DICK MERRIWELL’S FIST.


When they came to sign the agreement Harrison was not a little
surprised to note that instead of “Richard Dick” the name the young man
wrote at the foot of the document was Richard Merriwell.

“Hey?” cried the manager of the Outlaws, gazing at that signature.
“What’s this? I thought you said your name was Dick.”

“And so it is,” was the smiling answer; “Dick Merriwell. While we were
talking I told you that Richard Dick would serve for the time being.”

“Merriwell? Merriwell? I’ve heard of a fellow by that name--Frank
Merriwell.”

“My brother.”

“That so? He was a great college pitcher. He was one of the college
twirlers the Big Leagues really scrambled for--and couldn’t get.”

“My brother always had a decided disinclination to play professional
baseball. For him, like myself, it was a highly enjoyable sport; but to
take it up professionally went against the grain.”

“Oh, yes,” grinned Harrison, “I understand about that. He didn’t have
to do it. If he had been poor, maybe he’d looked at it differently;
but he was loaded with the needful, and, therefore, he could afford to
pose.”

“At one time, in the midst of his college career, my brother was forced
to leave Yale on account of poverty.”

“Really?”

“Really. He might have gone into professional baseball then and made
money.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Because of his prejudice against professionalism in that sport;
because he hoped some day to return to Yale and finish his course, and
he wished to play upon his college team.”

“Oh, that rule about professionalism is all rot.”

“It is useless to enter into a discussion over it. It may seem to work
unfairly toward certain clean young college men who might make money
playing summer baseball; but on the whole, it’s an absolute necessity
to keep college baseball from deteriorating into something rotten and
disgraceful.”

“It’s pretty rotten now in some cases. Lots of college men play for
money on the quiet.”

“Some may, but not so many as is generally supposed. Those who do so
are dishonest.”

“That rule makes them dishonest.”

“No, it doesn’t. They might do something else. There are many ways by
which a college man can earn money to help himself. If he’s a good
player or athlete, he will find hands enough extended to help him. He
will be given opportunities of earning money honestly by honest work.
The trouble with nine out of ten of the ball players who play for money
is that they shirk real work. I said I wouldn’t enter into a discussion
over this rule, but you seem to have lured me into one.”

“What did your brother do when he had to leave college and go to work?”

“He started in as an engine wiper in a railroad locomotive roundhouse.”

“Engine wiper! A greasy, dirty, slaving job.”

“Well, pretty near that; but he didn’t stay at it long.”

“Oh! Ho! ho!” laughed Harrison derisively. “It was too much for him,
hey? He quit, did he?”

Dick Merriwell flushed a little.

“My brother never quit in his life,” he retorted. “He was promoted. It
wasn’t long before he was a locomotive fireman, and the day came when
his place was at the throttle.”

“That wasn’t doing so worse,” admitted the baseball manager. “He must
be some hustler.”

“He’s a hustler all right. He never yet put his hand to the plow and
turned back.”

“And you’re his brother?”

“His half-brother.”

“I haven’t taken much interest in college baseball these late years,”
admitted Harrison. “Been too busy. What position do you play?”

“I pitch.”

“Well, my boy, we’ll try to treat you gentle and kind to-morrow. It
would be a shame to spoil your reputation all at once.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” laughed Dick. “Now, we’ll put up that forfeit
with the hotel proprietor, with the understanding that it doesn’t stand
if we can’t get the park for the game.”

“We? You said----”

“That I thought I could make arrangements with Charlie Loring. I do. I
shall attend to that matter at once. Are you stopping at this hotel?”

“Yes; but my players are at the Sunset.”

“I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve secured the park.”

“O. K. I’ve got a lot of paper I’ll agree to scatter through this town,
telling people just what sort of a team they’ll see if they come out
for the game to-morrow.”

“And I’ll attend to the rest of the advertising.”

At the desk they called for the proprietor, who came forth, after a
brief delay, from his private office. When the matter was explained he
agreed to hold the forfeit money, which was placed in his hands.

As they were turning from the desk a lanky, hard-faced man with a
hoarse, rasping voice approached and spoke to Harrison.

“What’s this about the game here?” he inquired. “I hear it’s off. If
there’s no go to-morrow, I’ll run up to Denver this afternoon to visit
an old partner of mine who’s playing on the Denver nine.”

“It looks now, Stover,” said Harrison, “as if there might be a game
to-morrow, but not with the regular Springs team.”

The fellow with the harsh voice appeared decidedly displeased.

“I was counting on a lay-off,” he growled.

“You get lay-offs enough, Stover. Out in this country we don’t play
more than four games a week at the most.”

“Well, when we’re not playing, we’re pounding around over four or five
hundred miles of railroad at a jump.”

“Quit your growling. You have a snap, and you know it. Can’t you shake
that grouch you’ve had for the last ten days?”

“Who do we play with, anyhow?”

“A team of college men.”

“What? Well, that will be a ripping old game! Them college kids can’t
play baseball. They don’t know what it is.”

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind after to-morrow,” smiled Dick.

The fellow gave him a contemptuous stare.

“Oh, I reckon you’re one of the college guys.”

“You’re right.”

“He’s the manager of the team,” explained Harrison.

“He looks it. Somebody picked him too soon. He isn’t half ripe yet.”

“Don’t mind Buzzsaw, Merriwell,” said the manager of the Outlaws. “This
is his way when his liver goes wrong.”

“He needs to take something for his liver,” said Dick. “A shaking up
would do it good. If he handed out enough loose tongue to some people
he might get the shaking up.”

“Well, blamed if you ain’t a sassy young rat!” rasped Buzzsaw Stover,
an ugly light in his eyes.

Harrison grasped the man’s shoulder, turned him around, and gave him a
push.

“Go away, Stover,” he commanded. “You’ve been ready to fight with
anybody for a week or more.”

“By and by,” laughed Dick quietly, “he will get what he’s hunting for.”

Stover walked out of the lobby.

A few minutes later Dick followed. He found Buzzsaw waiting on the
street. The pugnacious Outlaw blocked Dick’s way.

“What you need, my baby, is a first-class spanking,” rasped Stover.
“If you’d minded your own business, I’d had the rest of to-day and
to-morrow to do as I please.”

“If I was manager of your team you would have the rest of to-day and
to-morrow, and the brief remainder of this season, and all the seasons
to come, to do as you please,” returned Dick quietly. “I would hand you
a quick shoot that would land you at liberty to please yourself for all
time.”

“Oh, you would, hey?”

“That’s what I told you.”

“Well, I’ll hand you something you won’t forget!”

As he roared forth the threat Stover sprang in and swung a blow at the
face of the seemingly unprepared Yale man.

Several minutes later Buzzsaw awoke to find Warwhoop Clinker and Gentle
Willie Touch laboring to revive him, while a curious crowd stood around
looking on.

“What’s--what’s matter?” mumbled Stover. “What happened to
me--sunstroke? This blamed hot weather----”

“It was a stroke, all right,” murmured Gentle Willie, “and it was the
son of some proud father who passed it out to you. He was a nice,
clean, sweet-looking young man.”

“What’s that?” snarled Stover, struggling to rise. “What are you
talking about?”

“You got up against a polite gent and made one reach for him with a
bunch of fives,” explained Warwhoop. “Willie and I were over across the
way and saw it all. We didn’t know what was going to happen until it
was all over and you had stretched yourself out to rest in the dust. He
reached your jaw with the quickest wallop I ever saw delivered. There
must have been chain lightning behind it, for you went down and out
instanter.”

Stover felt of his jaw and rubbed his head wonderingly.

“Who was it?” he asked. “I remember talking to that upstart who’s made
arrangements to put a college team against us to-morrow. He got sassy,
and I decided to take it out of him.”

“You made a slight miscalculation, Buzzsaw,” murmured Gentle Willie.
“He knocked you stiff.”

“It’s a lie!” snarled Stover. “Somebody hit me from behind.”

“No,” denied Clinker, “that young fellow ducked your blow and rose
with a wallop on your jaw that sent you to by-bye land.”

It was beaten in upon Buzzsaw at last that he had been knocked out in
a flash by a single blow of Dick Merriwell’s fist. He struggled to his
feet a bit weak, but shook off the supporting hand of Warwhoop.

“He took me by surprise,” he snarled. “I wasn’t looking for it. Wait!
I’ll get him for that, and I’ll get him good and hard!”




CHAPTER XXII.

ALL ARRANGED.


Having disposed of Buzzsaw Stover and seen him cared for by his two
friends, Dick Merriwell quietly walked away and sought Charlie Loring
at the Sunset House, a small hotel at which most of the Outlaws had
found accommodations.

It fortunately chanced that Loring was there, and soon Dick was
explaining his business. Surprised, the manager of the Springs nine
looked Merriwell over with a queer smile on his face.

“What’s this you’re giving me?” he said. “You want to engage the ball
park to-morrow? You’ve made arrangements to play Harrison’s Outlaws?
Why, my boy, where’s your ball team?”

“I’ll have one to-morrow,” laughingly declared Dick.

“But I don’t understand where you’ll get it.”

“Leave it to me, Loring. If I can secure the field I’ll put a team
against Harrison’s bunch.”

“Well, I think perhaps we can fix it about the park. When I entered
into negotiations with Harrison, I had no idea the backers of my team
would object, but in a way they’re a lot of old women, and they got
cold feet. You see, they have an idea that these Outlaws would make us
look like fourth raters, and they’ve figured it out that there wouldn’t
be much of any profit in the game anyway if we got only one-third of
the gate money and stood for all the expenses.

“Furthermore, it’s a fact that my players are pretty badly smashed
up. We’ve had rotten hard luck this season. I really couldn’t blame
Harrison for making a howl, though he barked it into me so hard that
I had to get away in order to keep from punching him. You understand
when the financial backers of my team got out from under me I had to
find a loophole for myself. Never did such a thing before, and I hope
I’ll never be forced into it again.”

“Well, if I get together a nine and play the Outlaws it will let you
out all the more gracefully. Your backers ought to jump at this chance.
They really ought to give us the use of the park without money and
without price.”

“That’s right. Perhaps I can fix it that way. I’ll put it up to them
good and stiff and let you know inside an hour. I’ll phone you at your
hotel; I know where you’re stopping.”

“Thank you.”

“Still, as a special favor, would you mind telling me where you expect
to get your players?”

“Buckhart, the regular Yale catcher, is here with me. Two others of my
party are Tommy Tucker, who once played short on the Yale varsity, and
Bouncer Bigelow, who isn’t much at baseball, but might fill right field
on a pinch--though I hope I won’t have to use him. Chester Arlington,
an old Fardale schoolmate, is stopping here, along with his mother and
sister. To my surprise and delight, this very morning I ran across old
Greg McGregor, a Yale grad who once played on the varsity nine, and
McGregor tells me that Blessed Jones, another Yale man, will be down
from Denver this afternoon. They’re out here on some sort of a business
deal.

“There are seven men of the nine, if we count Bigelow in. Jimmy Lozier
and Duncan Ross, two Columbia men, are here at the Springs, stopping
at the Alta Vista. We sat out in the moonlight last night and talked
baseball and college athletics for two hours. The fever is still
burning in their veins, and they would jump at the chance to get into a
game.

“So you see, Loring, old man, I’m confident that I can get a team
together. I hope to find another man, so that I can keep Bigelow on the
bench in case of accident. I didn’t jump into this blindly; I had it
all figured out in advance.”

“Well, it seems that you can scrape up a team; but, oh, my boy! what
chance do you fancy you will have against the Outlaws? They will make a
holy show of you.”

“Perhaps so,” nodded Dick; “but you never can tell. We’re not going
into this thing for money. In fact, I’ve agreed to donate my share of
the gate receipts to the Collins’ Home for Consumptives. It’s sport
we’re after, Loring.”

“There isn’t much sport in being wiped all over the map. However, if
you fancy it, that’s your funeral, not mine. I’ll do what I can for
you.”

“Harrison has agreed to pepper the town with paper advertising his own
team. I’m to look after the rest of the advertising.”

“Leave that to me also, Merriwell. If I can get the park for you, I’ll
see that everybody at the Springs knows there’s going to be a game
to-morrow.”

“Thank you, Loring. You’re putting yourself to too much trouble.”

“Not at all. I couldn’t put myself to too much trouble to oblige the
brother of Frank Merriwell.”

True to his word, in less than an hour Charlie Loring looked up Dick
at the big hotel where Merriwell was registered and informed him that
he had found no difficulty in securing the ball park. The matter of
advertising was discussed, and Loring hastened away to attend to it.

Having phoned Harrison and put him wise to the successful course of
affairs, the Yale man looked around for Lozier and Ross. He found the
latter in a short time, and Ross delightedly agreed to play, giving his
positive assurance that Lozier would be equally glad of the opportunity.

Things were moving along swimmingly. On the broad veranda of the hotel
Dick discovered Chester Arlington, who greeted him with a friendly
smile.

Arlington pricked up his ears at once on hearing what Merriwell had to
say.

“Baseball?” he cried. “A game with the Outlaws? Why, say! I thought
they were to play the local team.”

“So they were, but it’s off--a disagreement over terms.”

“And you’ve got it fixed to tackle them?”

“It’s all fixed. The ball ground is engaged for the game.”

“Will I play!” laughed Chester. “_Will_ I! Ask me! I haven’t touched a
ball, it is true, since I played down in Texas with Frank’s pick-ups.
Oh, we gave the great Tigers a surprise down there! But say, I’ve
been looking over the list of games played by these Outlaws, and they
walloped the Tigers to a whisper. They must be the real hot stuff.”

“I fancy they are,” nodded Dick.

“Think we’ll stand any show with them?”

“I don’t know about that. We’ll do our handsomest, and it won’t kill us
if we’re beaten. Nevertheless, if they win we’ll try to leave them with
the impression that they’ve been in a baseball game.”

“Surest thing you know, Dick. Say, old man, think of it! You and I
playing together shoulder to shoulder--you and I, old foes of bygone
days! I’m not especially proud of my record in those old days; but
still, I can’t help thinking of it sometimes.”

“I think of it often, Chet. As an enemy you were the hardest fighter I
ever got up against.”

“Absolutely unscrupulous,” said Arlington. “In those times it was
anything to down you, Merriwell. I used to think you lucky, the way you
dodged my best-laid traps and sort of ducked me into the pits of my own
digging. After a time I got my eyes opened and realized that it wasn’t
luck--it was sheer superiority. I was sowing the wind in those days,
and it’s a marvel that I didn’t reap the whirlwind. I was the lucky
man, after all.”

Indeed, Arlington had been fortunate; for a score of times, at least,
he had been concerned in heinous plots and schemes which might have
lodged him behind prison bars. His reckless career had carried him to
the point of nearly committing homicide, and the shock of it, together
with Dick Merriwell’s friendly eye-opening words, had finally caused
him to turn over a new leaf.

The fight to regain his lost manliness and win an honorable standing in
the world had been long and bitter; but, with those words from Dick’s
lips echoing in his heart, he had struggled onward and upward. At last
he had shaken himself free from the shackles of evil passions and bad
habits, and, despite occasional falls and lapses, had risen to a man
whom any one might proudly call friend.

In business, as in other things, Chester had shown himself to be a
thoroughbred hustler and the worthy son of D. Roscoe Arlington, once
known as the greatest railroad magnate of the country. This hustling
had lifted him into financial independence, despite his youth, and
placed him on the road to wealth. Mingled with remorse for his reckless
past, there remained the regret that he had never been able to take a
course at Yale.

“Buckhart, Tucker, and Bigelow are out somewhere with old Greg McGregor
in my touring car,” said Dick. “They will be ready enough for the
sport. Tommy and Bouncer spent a week, with headquarters here at the
Springs, while Brad and I hunted up Scott Randolph, an old college
acquaintance of my brother. We found Randolph in the foothills west of
Denver. It’s a mighty interesting tale, Arlington, and I’ll spin it for
you sometime when we’re sitting down comfortably at leisure.”

“Good! Think of it--you and I sitting down comfortably at leisure and
chatting! But say, old man, I wish you would have a little chat with my
mother.”

“Your mother?” breathed Dick, not a little surprised by the proposal.

“Yes. You know she’s ill. It’s pitiful, old man--she has almost
completely lost her memory. I was speaking to her of you last night,
and she tried in vain to recall you. She’s sitting yonder at the far
end of the veranda.”

As Chester made a motion with his hand Dick’s eyes discovered a woman,
seated amid pillows in a big, comfortable chair. He was shocked. Was it
possible that this thin, sad-faced, white-haired old lady was Chester
Arlington’s mother, the woman who, as an enemy, had been even bitterer
and more venomous than Arlington himself?

There she sat with her pallid hands resting on her lap, gazing dreamily
upon the mountains which rose majestically against the western sky.

“Will you come, Merriwell, old man?” asked Arlington softly, as his
hand rested on Dick’s arm.

“Yes,” was the answer.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CHESTER ARLINGTON’S MOTHER.


Mrs. Arlington looked up as they approached, and at sight of her son a
faint smile passed over her face. From her faded eyes the old fire had
died, to be rekindled no more. There was no longer rouge upon cheeks
or lips, and the hands which had once been loaded with jewels were now
undecorated, save by a single heavy ring of gold, her wedding ring. Her
dress was plain and modest, almost somber.

“Mother,” said Chester tenderly, “this is Dick Merriwell. You remember,
don’t you, that we were speaking of him last evening?”

“Dick--Dick Merriwell?” she murmured. “Were we speaking of him,
Chester? I’m so very forgetful. It’s annoying to be so extremely
forgetful.”

“Yes, mother, I told you that he was my dearest friend--the fellow I
esteem above all others.”

She held out her hand, which Dick promptly took, bowing low, his head
bared.

“You will excuse me, Mr. Merriwell,” she said. “I would rise to greet
my son’s dearest friend, but I’m not very strong.”

“I wouldn’t have you rise for the world, Mrs. Arlington,” said Dick,
his voice a trifle unsteady in spite of himself, a slight mist creeping
into his eyes. “I am very glad indeed to meet Chester Arlington’s
mother. It is a pleasure and a privilege.”

“Thank you,” she returned, looking at him earnestly. “You have a fine
face, and you are a thoroughbred gentleman. My boy has to mingle with
very rough characters, you know--his business demands it. His business
is--it is---- Chester, what is your business?”

“Mining, mother.”

“Oh, yes. Isn’t it strange I can’t remember such things? My daughter is
here with me. Have you ever met my daughter, Mr. Merriwell?”

Had he ever met June Arlington! It seemed impossible that her mind
could be blank to all recollection of the past, in which she had so
intensely opposed the friendship between June and Dick.

“I have met her, Mrs. Arlington.”

“You seem to have forgotten, mother,” said Chester, “that June and Dick
are quite well acquainted. They met for the first time several years
ago at Fardale.”

“Fardale--that’s the place where you attended school, I think you told
me. It was your father’s choice to send you there, was it not? Seems to
me I opposed it; and that, I presume, was the reason why I never cared
to visit you at Fardale.”

She had spent months at Fardale!

Unobserved by Mrs. Arlington, Chester and Dick exchanged glances.
Although Chet was smiling, Dick knew that deep down in his heart there
was hidden a great sorrow for the affliction of his mother.

“My daughter is a very charming young lady,” Mrs. Arlington continued.
“In a way, I am quite as proud of her as I am of my fine, manly boy.
Few mothers are blessed with such children.”

“Few indeed,” agreed Dick, accepting the chair which Chester had placed
beside that of Mrs. Arlington. “I quite agree with you, madam.”

“You see, mother,” laughed Chester, “Merriwell is something of a
flatterer.”

“I am sure it is not flattery. I see nothing but sincerity in his face
and eyes. Is he interested in your business affairs, my son?”

“Oh, no, indeed. He is still a student at college. He’s the pride
of old Yale, the college I would have attended had circumstances
permitted.”

A slight frown of perplexity settled upon her forehead.

“I can’t understand how circumstances could have prevented you from
attending any school you wished to attend, my son. Am I not right in
thinking that your father was in a situation to give you the advantage
of a course at any college in the country?”

He evaded the question.

“At the time when I was contemplating entering Yale,” he said, “I saw a
business opportunity that fascinated me.”

“I shall never cease to regret that you chose to let business interfere
with your education, Chester. You might have attended college, and
been assured that your father would have set you up in any business or
profession you chose to follow.”

There was not the slightest recollection of the fact that appalling
reverses had stripped D. Roscoe Arlington of wealth and power and made
it necessary for him to husband the few resources left him, in order to
provide for himself and his wife in their old age.

More than once Chester had wondered at the strength of the man who, in
face of such calamities, had found it possible to hold up his head and
resist the temptation to put a bullet through his brain. It is almost
invariably the brave man who survives crushing adversity; it is the
coward who commits suicide.

“Father was not very well, you know,” Chester went on. “Besides, it is
often the worthless chap who depends upon his pater to start him out in
life.”

“You are very independent, my son. I presume it’s a spirit to be proud
of. I can’t quite understand why your father didn’t come out here with
us.”

“He didn’t wish to take the long railroad journey, mother. We’re going
back in a few days. A letter from the physician tells me that father is
not at all well.”

“Then we should return at once. If he is ill, my place is at his side.
You must stay with us, Chester.”

“I am going back with you, but I can’t stay there long unless it is
absolutely necessary. A man of business,” he added, “makes a serious
blunder when he neglects his affairs. In these hustling times, a fellow
has to keep on the jump to gather in the shekels.”

“Oh, but there’s something better than mere money. Whoever gives
himself wholly to the accumulation of wealth loses half his life.”

The change in her was marvelous, for once her only thought had seemed
to be of wealth and power and social prestige. A country girl, risen
from the humblest station in life, she had slavishly worshiped false
gods. After all, was it not a blessing of kind Providence that the
page of the past had been turned down and sealed for her? There was
no recollection of the years she had spent in a private sanitarium,
separated from husband and children--and that was well.

They sat there talking for some time. Other guests of the hotel came
forth in summer garments and scattered themselves in chairs along
the veranda to get the cool breath which now came creeping down from
the snow-capped Rockies. Parties of sight seers were returning from
Manitou, the Garden, the Cañon, Monument Park, and other near-by places
of interest. Nearly all the guests of that big hotel were tourists from
the East.

Presently a large touring car containing four young men rolled up to
the steps and stopped. Brad Buckhart was at the wheel. His companions
were Tucker, Bigelow, and Gregory McGregor.

At sight of them Dick rose and excused himself, bidding Mrs. Arlington
adieu.

Chester proposed to take his mother to her room, but she declined,
saying that she preferred to sit there a while longer.

“Go with your friend, my boy,” she urged. “I am all right. Don’t worry
about me. Such a friend as that young man is worth cleaving to.”

“You’ve sized him up right at last, mother.”

“At last?” she breathed. “Why, I’ve never had the opportunity before. I
could only judge of him from what you told me about him.”

“Oh, of course--certainly,” said Chester hastily. “I’ll return
directly, mother.”

Buckhart had turned the car over to a man from the garage, who took it
away.

Tucker threw himself into a chair on the veranda.

“There,” he said, “we’ve done up this old town brown. We’ve taken a
peek from the top of Pike’s Peak, we’ve gaped at the wonders in the
Garden of the Gods, we’ve seen a man or two down at Manitou--likewise
two or three girls. There isn’t anything more to be done, and I’m ready
to weep. Bigelow, lend me your handkerchief.”

“Not on your life,” said Bouncer. “I’m sick of paying laundry bills for
you. I’ve been lending you handkerchiefs and socks and pajamas until
the laundry man has got the most of my wealth.”

“Now, wouldn’t I look well rattling around in a suit of your pajamas!”
scoffed Tommy. “Big, you’re a heartless, unfeeling creature, and I
repudiate you as a friend. In order to get up some excitement to kill
the monotony, I’ll have to kill you.”

“There’s a little excitement in the air,” said Dick. Then he told them
of the arrangements for the baseball game.

“Wow! wow!” barked Tucker delightedly. “You’ve saved my life, Richard.
You’ve preserved me from a possibly fatal attack of ennui. Will we play
the Outlaws? Oh, say, watch us!”

“But can you get together a team, pard?” asked Buckhart.

“I’ve figured it all out. We will have nine men, including Bigelow.”

“What?” cried Tommy, jumping up. “Are you going to let Big play? That
settles it. It’s all off as far as I’m concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“I quit. I throw up both hands. Bigelow play baseball! Say, Dick,
you’re a subject for the dotty house.”

“Oh, come now,” protested the fat fellow. “I don’t pretend to be a
crack at baseball, but if you’ve got to have me, I’ll do my best. One
thing I’m proud of, I never was dropped from the Yale varsity.”

“A stab at me,” snapped Tucker; “a most unkind thrust. But, look here,
it’s a well-known fact that I got too fast for the varsity.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Bouncer, “you got too fast all right. You certainly
hit a fast pace, and it’s a wonder you didn’t get too fast for the
college. All your friends expected you would be invited to chase
yourself.”

“Of course,” said Dick, “if we can find a crackajack ninth man, Big
will be willing to sit on the bench and look handsome. You see, we’ll
give the impression that he’s a marvelous pinch hitter, and his size
ought to awe the Outlaws.”

“I’m a martyr,” said Bigelow. “For the sake of any good cause I am
ready to be benched. In fact, I’d really enjoy playing the game on the
bench, for then I wouldn’t have to exert myself and get all damp with
perspiration and rumple my beautiful hair and scatter a lot of cuticule
around the diamond sliding to bases. I love baseball, but oh, you
cuticule!”

“You’re sure a generous, self-sacrificing soul, Bouncer,” grinned
Buckhart.

Dick told of his encounter with Buzzsaw Stover.

“I opine,” observed Brad, “that Mr. Stover thought something worse than
a buzz saw had struck him.”

As they were chatting in this manner two horsemen came riding along the
street. One of them, the younger, was dressed in corduroy and woollens.
He sat his horse beautifully. The other, however, was the most
picturesque figure of the two: for both were Indians, and the older
man, bent and bowed, wore, despite the warmth of the unclouded sun, a
dirty old red blanket draped about his shoulders.

Tucker saw them first, and, uttering a yell, he grabbed Dick’s shoulder.

“Look,” he cried, pointing; “look there, Richard! What do you see?”

“So help me marvels,” exclaimed Dick, astounded, “it’s old Joe Crowfoot
and young Joe!”




CHAPTER XXIV.

TWO INDIAN FRIENDS.


True enough, the newcomers were Dick’s childhood friend Shangowah, and
his grandson, young Joe Crowfoot, Dick’s college friend. The young
Indian’s keen eyes had discovered Dick already, and there was a smiling
look of joyous astonishment on his handsome bronzed face. Both redskins
reined toward the hotel steps as the group of young men came charging
down from the veranda.

Then the guests lounging on that veranda beheld a singular spectacle.
They saw the young Indian leap from his horse and shake hands with one
after another of those delighted youthful palefaces. They saw the old
Indian let himself down slowly and painfully from the saddle to stand
half bent and seemingly tottering, with arms extended, to give Dick
Merriwell an affectionate embrace. This was a sight that caused many of
the wondering ladies, and not a few spick and span gentlemen, to gasp
and turn up their noses.

“Of all surprising things,” young Joe was saying, “this is the
greatest. Merriwell, Buckhart, Tucker, Bigelow--here in Colorado
Springs!”

“Right here, chief,” chirped Tommy, “and ready at sight of your
beaming, dusky mug to execute a war dance, a ghost dance, a waltz, or
an Irish jig of joy. Tell us, how doth it happen thou art gallivanting
around these parts?”

“Shangowah, my grandfather, sent a message requesting me to meet him
here,” explained the youthful redskin.

Old Joe having released Dick, nodded his head slowly.

“The long trail,” he said, “has led Shangowah’s feet near to the place
where he must lie down for the big sleep that has no end. Shangowah
him mighty near polished off, finished up, cooked, done for. He think
he like once more to put him blinkers on Wind-that-roars-in-the-night,
his grandson; so he get white man to write talking letter that say for
young Joe to come.”

“Now, Crowfoot,” protested Dick, “I’ve heard you sing this same song
before, but I notice that you invariably come out of these spells with
colors flying.”

Nevertheless, in his heart Merriwell was pained to note positive signs
of declining strength and vitality in the old redskin.

“Mebbe sometime old Joe he make bluff ’bout it,” confessed Shangowah;
“but no can keep up bluff always. Bimeby, pretty soon, time come when
bluff is real thing, and old man he have to croak. He no think when he
get paleface friend to write talking letter that mebbe he meet you,
too, Injun Heart. He much happy.”

“Come up onto the veranda out of this sun,” urged Dick. “There are some
chairs yonder, and you can rest while we talk a little.”

“Sun him feel good to old Crowfoot,” mumbled the bowed and aged chief.
“Blood get thin in old man’s body; sun he warm it up some. All same,
Crowfoot like little powwow with Injun Heart and friends.”

Pride would not permit him to allow Dick to assist him up the steps.
With an effort he mounted them in a certain slow and dignified manner.

Surprised and not at all pleased, some of the guests upon the veranda
stared at the aged redskin and the presuming young fellows who had
brought him thither. The two saddled horses had been turned over to the
care of a boy.

McGregor placed the easiest chair for old Crowfoot, but the chief
declined to take it.

“No like-um chair,” he said, as he slowly let himself down to a sitting
posture upon the floor of the veranda, placing his back against the
hotel wall. “When Shangowah get so he can’t sit this fashion, he stand
up till he flop over for good. He take little smoke now.”

The old rank, black pipe was produced, crumbed tobacco jammed into
the bowl with a soiled thumb, and Crowfoot lighted up. As the breeze
carried the tobacco smoke from his lips toward some of the near-by
guests they turned up their noses still further and moved away, making
some low, uncomplimentary remarks.

“Dear me!” chuckled Tommy Tucker. “The dukes and duchesses seem
disturbed by the fragrant aroma of the chief’s calumet.”

“Never mind them,” said Dick. “Let’s mind our own business and pay
no attention to people whose delicate sensibilities are so easily
disturbed. Tell me, Shangowah, how has the world been using you?”

“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot, pulling slowly at the pipe. “Same old way.
Knock-um Injun ’round like young palefaces kick football. Sometime
old Joe he be up; sometime he be down in mud. No can seem to settle
nowhere. Injun have no home now. Palefaces take it all; pretty soon,
bimeby, he own the earth.”

“That’s practically his now,” grinned Tucker, “and with flying machines
he’s preparing to set forth for the conquering of other worlds.”

“I was doing well guiding this summer,” said young Joe, “when I
received my grandfather’s letter asking me to meet him here. I need all
the money I can earn to help me through college, but----”

“Shangowah he have little dough in his kick,” interrupted the old man.
“He have ’nough to pay bills for his grandson one whole year at white
man’s big school. He no take chances to send it by mails; he want to
hand it over himself, so he send for young Joe.”

“You must have made a lucky strike of some sort, chief,” said Dick.

“Oh, old Joe he manage to scrape along. He play little poke’ now and
then. He get together some mon’ ’bout time big fight come off in Reno.
Never see big fight like that, so he think he take it in. He go to
Reno. Ugh! Everybody there. Town plumb full, swelled up, run over; but
old Joe he got ’long--he sleep anywhere, he eat anyhow.”

“Well, what do you think of the old sport,” cried Tucker delightedly,
“taking in a big prize fight? Did you see it, Crowfoot?”

The aged Indian gave the little chap a look of pained reproof.

“You bet-um your boots,” he grunted. “Old Joe he buy ring-side seat.
He meet up with heap much fight men before scrap come off. He look-um
John Jack over; he look-um Jim Jeff over. He like-um Jim Jeff, but when
he hear how Jim go by, when he see John Jack in prime, he think mebbe
Jim no come back good enough to whip Jack. He have little talk with Jim
Cob, too. He hold small powwow with John Sul.”

“Waugh!” laughed Buckhart. “You certainly got in with high society at
Reno.”

“Jim Cob,” continued Crowfoot, “he tell old Joe, Jim Jeff sure to win.
Him fine feller that Jim Cob, but he make big mistake. Old Joe he
listen heap much, say nothing, think all the time. When he see big odds
on Jim Jeff he think mebbe it is good chance to make fancy clean-up,
so he bet last dollar on John Jack. He win fourteen hundred plunk,
United States cash, clean dough.”

“Well, what do you know about that!” gasped Gregory McGregor, in
profound admiration. “But what would you have done if you had lost
every cent you had in the world, chief?”

Old Crowfoot looked at him wisely.

“If so,” he replied, “it not be first time Shangowah get skinned to him
teeth. He take chance more than once. He go busted more than once. He
always find some way to get on feet again.”

“You blessed old soldier of fortune!” chuckled Tucker. “How I admire
you! If I was not fearful you would rise up and take my scalp, I would
slap you familiarly on the back.”

“Back ’gainst wall,” reminded old Joe, sucking at the gurgling pipe.
“Rheumatiz in back. Anybody slap-um Shangowah on back, he get in heap
much trouble.”

“We’re stopping at a small hotel called the Sunset House,” said young
Joe. “I knew some of the big hotels might object--or the guests
might--if my grandfather should seek accommodations in them.”

“The Sunset House?” said Dick. “Why, that’s where Harrison’s ball team
is putting up.”

“Yes,” nodded young Joe, “they’re there. To-morrow they play with the
Springs’ nine, and my grandfather wishes to see the game.”

“They will not play with the Springs’ nine to-morrow.”

“Why not? That’s what brought them here.”

“But that game has been called off.”

“Too bad,” mumbled old Crowfoot. “Joe he get so he like-um baseball
heap much. He like-um to see one more game.”

“Well, you’ll have the chance,” smiled Dick, “for to-morrow Harrison’s
Outlaws will play a team picked up by yours truly, Richard Merriwell,
and your grandson is going to be in that game as a member of my nine.”

A light of joy leaped into the old redskin’s beady black eyes.

“The Great Spirit is good!” he said. “Shangowah he like to see young
Joe and Injun Heart play again, but he no expect to have the chance.”

After a time the two Indians departed, young Joe having delightedly
agreed to take part in the baseball game.

Even as the redskins were departing a tall, lank, insipid-looking young
man in flannels detached himself from a group of guests and approached
Merriwell’s party.

“I--I say, m’friends,” he drawled, “don’t you really think it’s
rawther _outré_--rawther bad taste, you understand? You should realize
that there are ladies and gentlemen here. You should understand
that bringing such offensive persons onto this veranda is deucedly
distasteful.”

Dick smilingly faced the fellow and took his measure.

“I don’t think,” he said, “I’ve ever been introduced to you.”

“Quite unnecessary--quite. My name is Archie Ling.”

“Ting-a-ling-ling,” chirped Tommy.

Mr. Ling gave the little chap a look intended to be crushing.

“I’m addressing this young man here,” he said haughtily. “I’m
remonstrating against bringing common, dirty, foul-smelling creatures
like those Indians onto the veranda of this hotel, and I hope my
remonstrance will be heeded. If it occurs again, the guests will feel
it their duty to protest to the management.”

“They may file their protests as soon as they please,” said Dick
quietly. “Those Indians are friends of mine.”

“Aw, really, you ought to be ashamed to make such an acknowledgement.
If circumstances of any sort made it necessary for me to know such
characters, I’d certainly do my best to hide the fact from the general
public. I’d never acknowledge that I was friendly with an Indian,
never.”

“Don’t worry,” returned Dick; “you would never have the chance, for I
don’t know an Indian who would care to be friendly with you. Look here,
Mr. Ling, you’re poking your nose into a crack where it’s liable to get
pinched.”

“Or twisted,” growled Buckhart. “Back up, Ling. Chase yourself, before
somebody is tempted to put their paws on you and toss you over the
rail.”

“Such insolence!” sniffed Ling. “I don’t understand how such cheap,
common people ever could find accommodations here.”

“Judging by appearances, your understanding is very limited,” said
Merriwell. “Really, I think it is dangerous for you to strain your
meagre intellect to understand things beyond your narrow scope.”

“Now, say, that’s insulting--actually insulting! I shall hold myself
in restraint, however. In behalf of the ladies and gentlemen who were
offended, I protest again against a repetition of your recent behavior.”

“Go away and play with your dolls,” begged Tucker. “If you annoy
people, somebody will give you a spanking.”

Mr. Ling gasped and choked.

“How dare you talk to me like that, you little----”

Tommy was on his toes in a twinkling.

“Cut it out, Ting-a-ling-ling,” he interrupted, “or I’ll hand you
the spanking myself, and I’ll guarantee that I can do the job to the
queen’s taste.”

“Sic him, Tommy,” gurgled Bigelow delightedly. “For once in my life
I’ll bet on you.”

But the lanky young man backed away.

“It’s evident,” he spluttered, “that you’re a set of young ruffians. I
shall inform the management what I think of you.”

“If you try to think too hard you may get a pain in that upper story
vacuum of yours.”

Ling retired, still muttering, and reported to the watching guests,
some of whom seemed amused, while others betrayed sympathetic
indignation. Neither Dick nor his friends, however, gave any one of
them further attention.

“I’ll have to get suits for the bunch,” said Merriwell. “Brad, Tommy,
and I have ours, which we brought along with us on the tour. I’ll find
Loring and see if he can fit the rest of the crowd out with uniforms.”

In this he was successful, and ere the dinner hour he had procured
uniforms enough for ten men, one of which, according to Loring’s
statement, was fully large enough for Bouncer Bigelow. He likewise
learned that Loring had set about advertising the game in a manner
which promised to leave no one at the Springs uninformed concerning it.

An hour after dinner, Dick found Chester and June Arlington chatting on
the veranda. Mrs. Arlington had retired to her room.

“Just in time to entertain sis, old fellow,” laughed Chet. “I have a
little business that I should look after. Make yourselves sociable.”

He left them together, whistling on his way down the street.

For a time they spoke somewhat constrainedly of commonplace things.
Finally June put out a hand and touched Dick’s sleeve lightly.

“Dick,” she murmured, “I have something that I want to say. I want to
tell you just what’s in my heart, but I can’t. Perhaps you understand
how happy I am. Perhaps you know that I appreciate all you have done
for my brother.”

“I never did much for Chester, June. It was impossible; he wouldn’t let
me.”

“You did everything for him. He knows it, and he has spoken of it many
times. It was you who made him what he is.”

“Hardly that, June. If there had not been the making of a man in him, I
could have done nothing. Really, I did nothing but----”

“Many a time you had it in your power to punish him as he justly
deserved, and yet you held your hand.”

“For your sake, June, not his,” whispered Dick as his fingers found
hers in the soft darkness.

Again it was impossible for her to find the words she sought, and their
hands clung together.

“It’s so strange,” she said, in a low tone; “so strange that my mother
should speak of you with such deep friendliness. She told me about
meeting you this afternoon. She told me how glad she was that Chester
had such a staunch and worthy friend. She’s wonderfully changed, Dick.”

“She is indeed.”

“The doctors have given some encouragement that her memory might be
restored, but I almost think it is better as it is. The recollection of
the past would be bitter to her now.”

“To all of us the past holds both sweet and bitter memories.”

“I’m very glad fortune brought us together here at the Springs, if only
for a few days. We must take mother back home soon, for father is ill
and lonely. Poor father! In his heart he always admired you, Dick.”

Thus drawn into reminiscences and memories of the past, they chatted
until Chester finally returned.

Five minutes after the reappearance of Arlington, a tall,
quick-stepping young man ascended from the street, and by the light
over the entrance of the hotel Dick recognized young Joe Crowfoot.

Joe turned and came forward quickly at Merriwell’s call.

“Looking for you, Dick,” he said. “You can handle my grandfather better
than I. He will listen to you when he won’t hear a word from me.
Unfortunately, he’s started to celebrate the pleasure of our meeting
here. You know what that means. He’s found liquor. I’ve locked him in
a room at the Sunset, but I can’t get the whisky away from him. I wish
you would come over with me and see what you can do.”

“I will,” said Dick. “I’ll come, Joe.”




CHAPTER XXV.

THE MAN IN THE NEXT ROOM.


Gentle Willie Touch, of the Outlaws, was an inveterate poker player. He
was likewise a constant loser, but the more he lost the keener became
his desire to play; and so whenever he was paid his salary or could
borrow money to get into a game, he might be found trying to “hatch up
something.”

At the Sunset House, as the members of Harrison’s ball team lounged
around after dinner, Willie sought to inveigle some of his comrades
into tempting fortune with the pasteboards.

“Oh, come on, you sick kittens,” he pleaded softly. “Come ahead up to
my room and rob me. I’ve got twenty bucks all in hard money that’s too
heavy for me to carry around. The weight of so much silver is a severe
strain upon my delicate strength, and some one will be doing me a favor
by taking it away from me.”

“Get out!” growled Grouch Kennedy. “I’m ashamed to play with you,
you’re such a thundering mark. Every time I get into a game and you go
broke I want to hand you back anything I’ve won, and that causes me
intense pain; for I can’t seem to give up money without distress. I’ve
sworn off, Willie boy; I’ll play with you no more.”

“Cruel old Groucher!” sighed Touch. “Now you know you’re welcome to my
dough when you win it honestly.”

“Talk about honesty in a poker game!” sneered Kennedy. “Who ever heard
of such a thing?”

“You know there’s supposed to be honesty even among thieves.”

“‘Supposed to be’ is good! You’ll have to find somebody else, Willie.
Your twenty doesn’t tempt me. I’m sore because these locals got cold
feet, and I’d be poor company, anyhow. I might growl.”

“Goodness!” said Willie. “If you didn’t, everybody would think you
sick. You’re always sore about something, you old groucher. Tell you
what I think, I have a notion that you’re afraid of me. You’re not
willing to give me a chance to get even. That’s a mean disposition.”

But he could not taunt Kennedy into playing. Nevertheless, in
time he found three men who were willing to sit into a game for a
while--Buzzsaw Stover, Warwhoop Clinker, and South-paw Pope. They
followed him up to his room, where the quartette peeled off their
coats, rolled up their sleeves, and seated themselves around a table
upon which Willie tossed a well-thumbed pack of cards.

“Too bad we couldn’t find one more man,” said Touch. “Five players make
a better game than four. Shall we use chips?”

“Nix,” said Warwhoop. “Let’s play with real money, and then there won’t
be any disagreement and chewing the rag over settling up. Every time
chips are used the banker finds himself short. Cold cash is better, and
out in this country there’s always plenty of coin floating around. I’ve
got a pocket full of chicken feed.”

“Haven’t you better cards than these, Willie?” asked South-paw, looking
the pack over disdainfully.

“Dunno,” was the answer. “Mebbe I have in my clothes somewhere. I’ll
see.”

Touch opened the door of a closet at the back of the room and went
through a suit of clothes hanging inside that closet.

“Nothing doing,” he called. “Those are all the cards I have. Perhaps
I’d better go out and get a new pack.”

“Aw, forget it!” rasped Buzzsaw. “These’ll do. Come on, let’s get down
to business.”

Seated at the table, they produced fists full of silver and gold money
and cut the cards for the first deal.

“Dollar limit?” inquired Warwhoop.

“Let’s make it a little lighter,” urged Touch. “With that limit my
twenty wouldn’t last long if luck ran against me as usual. Luck--Grouch
says you’re all thieves. He doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as
honesty among poker players.”

“Grouch judges everybody by himself,” said Stover, who had cut “low”
and was shuffling the cards. “Still, I’m willing to call it a half,
with a dime limit; there seems to be plenty of dimes. Cut, Clinker.
Your ante, South-paw.”

Touch piled up his silver dollars in front of him, kissing them, one
after another.

“Good-by, boys,” he murmured. “I know we must part. You’ll soon be
scattered among my good friends, these thieves. I love money, but, oh,
you little game of draw!”

“Hark!” rasped Buzzsaw. “What’s that?”

To a sad and doleful tune some one in the adjoining room was singing:

  “We from childhood played together,
    Heap fine comrade, Jack and I;
  We would fight each other’s battles,
    To each other’s aid we’d fly.”

“Oh, cut it out!” roared Buzzsaw. “Go file your voice.”

“That’s the tune the old cat died on,” cried South-paw.

“Something awful!” growled Warwhoop. “It would drive a man to murder.”

“These partitions are very thin,” said Gentle Willie. “I don’t think
much of the old man bunking us in this place, when he might have put us
up at the Antlers, the Alamo, or the Alta Vista.”

“Oh, what do you want, anyhow?” cried Warwhoop. “Do you want to be a
howling swell? If he had put us up at any one of those places it would
have cost him two or three times as much as it does here. Here the feed
is good, the bed is fair, and I’m not kicking for some of the places
we’ve bunked in. Let’s play poker.”

As the game got under way they were still further disturbed by a
doleful, wailing chant which floated in from the adjoining room.
Listening in spite of themselves, they heard something like this:

  “No booka lo go dana,
  No booka lo go dana,
  No booka lo go dana--
  Happy he away yah!”

“What the blazes is it,” snarled Buzzsaw; “Chinese, Hottentot, or----”

“Injun,” said South-paw. “If that ain’t an Injun dirge I’ll eat my hat.”

“Sure it is,” agreed Warwhoop. “They’ve put a couple of Injuns into
that room, a crazy old brave and a tall young buck.”

“They seem to be celebrating,” laughed Gentle Willie. “I should say
they had been indulging in fire water.”

“Don’t talk of it,” entreated Warwhoop. “You make me thirsty, and I
have to be careful to let the booze alone while the baseball season is
in swing.”

Clinker’s besetting weakness was his taste for liquor. Started on a
toot by a single drink, he invariably went the limit, which meant a
protracted spree from which he always recovered in a shaky condition.

The doleful singing continuing, they yelled threats at the singer and
threw things against the partition. The result was a sudden burst of
fierce and startling whoops and yells, followed by a return thumping on
that same partition.

“Wow!” gasped Warwhoop, his eyes bulging. “I think mebbe we’d better
let that party alone. He may break through and attempt to scalp us if
we continue to irritate him.”

“Close the door to the closet, Willie,” directed South-paw. “That’s
what makes us hear it so plain.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Touch, as he rose and peered into the
closet. “The old partition is only boarded up part way. There’s an
opening two feet wide at the top.”

Closing the door, he returned to his seat and the game continued. To
the delight of Touch, luck favored him from the first, and it was not
long before his twenty became forty.

“I know my hoodoo now,” he laughed; “it’s old Groucher. I always lose
with him in the game. We wanted a fifth man to play.”

The door of the closet swung open, and old Joe Crowfoot stepped softly
into the room.

“You like-um ’nother man to play?” he asked eagerly. “Shangowah, he
play poke’ sometime. He sit in now. He take little hand.”




CHAPTER XXVI.

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.


They started up in astonishment.

“Mercy!” murmured Gentle Willie.

“Great Scott!” gasped South-paw.

“Thunder!” rasped Buzzsaw.

“Wow!” barked Clinker.

“Whoop!” cried old Joe Crowfoot.

“How in blazes did he get into this room?” snarled Stover.

“Heap easy,” declared the aged Indian sweetly. “Nice big hole in top
of little room. Old Joe climb up on shelves, wiggle through hole, come
right in. How, how. Much glad. You got ’nother seat, he take-um hand in
little game.”

“The nerve of it!” exploded Warwhoop.

“Kick him out!” roared Clinker. “Open the door, Willie. We’ll drop him
out on his neck.”

But when Clinker and Stover took a step toward the old Indian, the
latter silently produced a long, wicked-looking knife.

“Try to kick-um old Joe, he make nice mince meat of you,” said Crowfoot.

They stopped.

“The old buck is drunk,” said South-paw.

Shangowah’s beady eyes twinkled.

“Come to meet grandson, young Joe,” he said, in an explanatory manner.
“Meet other friends. Heap glad. Celebrate some. Old Joe so old he no
have time to celebrate much more, so he whoop it up now. ’Scuse-um me.”

The knife disappeared, and its place in Crowfoot’s hand was taken by
a large, flat bottle containing a brownish amber liquor. Removing the
cork, the redskin tipped the bottle and permitted two or three swallows
to slide gurglingly down his throat.

“Oh, murder!” muttered Warwhoop. “It’s whisky. I smell it.”

“Mebbe you have little drink?” invited Crowfoot cordially, as he
extended the bottle.

But Stover seized Clinker by the shoulder.

“Don’t you touch the stuff, Warwhoop,” he warned. “You know what it
will do to you. We’ve got to play to-morrow.”

“Got to play a bunch of college kids,” said Clinker. “We could beat
them if every man on the team was jagged.”

“You no take little drink?” asked Crowfoot. “Then old Joe he have to
drink-um it all. Grandson, Wind-that-roars-in-the-night, he think old
Joe jigged up now. He lock old Joe in room so he get no more joy juice.
Waugh! Shangowah have bottle hid under blanket. Grandson no know it.”

“He’s a sly old duck,” grinned Gentle Willie. “Really he’s a most
amusing specimen.”

“But he’s interfering with the game,” complained Clinker.

“No interfere,” said Crowfoot. “Play some--take hand.”

“You don’t know anything about draw poker,” said South-paw.

“Not much,” agreed the Indian. “Mebbe play little bit.”

“Why, you haven’t got any money,” sneered Buzzsaw.

“Guess some more,” invited the ancient chief, as he promptly dug up a
fistful of clinking coins. “Got heap much cash. Make heap good haul on
prize fight in Reno.”

Gentle Willie laughed aloud.

“Well, now, what do you know about that! Here’s an Injun loaded down
with real money.”

The deportment of the four Outlaws underwent a sudden change.

“Really,” said Buzzsaw, “he looks like a nice, decent old brave.
Perhaps we’d better let him into the game.”

The others agreed to this, and, a chair being placed, old Joe advanced
unsteadily and seated himself between Stover and Pope.

“The limit is fifty cents, chief,” explained South-paw.

“Let’s make it a dollar,” urged Gentle Willie, success having given him
confidence. “What do you say, Mr. Lo?”

“Make-um it anything,” grunted old Joe. “No limit suit me.”

“Well, he is a sport!” chuckled Clinker. “Tell you what, we’ll call it
a dollar limit and all Jack pots. Understand that, Tecumseh?”

“Lemme see. Mebbe so,” answered old Joe. “You make little explanation.”

“It will be like taking candy from the baby,” whispered Clinker in
Gentle Willie’s ear; while Buzzsaw explained to the Indian, who
listened in a dull, half-comprehending way.

But when the game was resumed old Joe seemed to catch onto the run of
it in a manner which surprised the others.

“No play much,” said the redskin. “Most forget how.”

He was permitted to win one or two small pots, which seemed so to elate
him that he took another long pull at the bottle. His tongue grew
thick and his eyes seemed to be glazy. At intervals he insisted on
singing, and always the tune was a doleful dirge.

  “I’ve traveled about heap much in my time,
    Of troubles I’ve sure seen a few;
  I find it heap better in every clime
    To paddle my own canoe.”

“You’re certainly a musical cuss,” said Clinker; “but music and draw
poker don’t go well together. Cut it out.”

“My cut?” grunted old Joe, reaching for the cards. “You no like-um
music, hey? Shangowah he no sing much; he too old. He got rheumatiz in
his voice. What you do ’round here?”

“We came here to play baseball,” explained Gentle Willie. “Know what
that is?”

Crowfoot scratched his head.

“Mebbe so,” he mumbled. “Old Joe see game once. See men throw balls
like bullet at ’nother man. ’Nother man hit it with big stick. Then
everybody run, crowd yell, one who hit ball make quick foot race round
in circle back to place where he start. There he scoot-um head first
on ground. Somebody throw ball to feller who grab it and hit-um man
on ground ’tween shoulders. Everybody yell: ‘Kill umpire.’ Old Joe he
get out knife and start to do it. Next thing everybody jump on old
Joe, kick him stiff. What make-um holler ‘kill umpire’ if no want him
killed?”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Buzzsaw. “You certainly was going to be
obliging.”

“No understand it,” sighed Crowfoot sadly. “Take-um knife from old
Joe, kick-um him, put-um bracelets on him, yank him to lockup. Next
day judge fine-um him twenty-five dol’ and costs--say ’cause he break
peace. He no break anything. He all broke up himself.”

“Well, just come out to the game to-morrow,” urged Stover, “and you’ll
see us eat a lot of kids up.”

“Eat um--eat um kids?”

“I mean the fellers on the opposite team.”

“You eat um?” repeated Crowfoot in a puzzled way. “You like-um baseball
players to eat?”

“He’s speaking figuratively, Powhatan,” exclaimed Gentle Willie. “He
means that we’ll beat the everlasting stuffing out of them. We can beat
anything that plays the game, and a chesty, conceited youngster by the
name of Dick Merriwell had the nerve to challenge us to play. What do
you think of that!”

“Heap much nerve,” nodded Crowfoot, swaying slightly on his chair. “Old
Joe come. He have great fun to watch you beat-um young fool Merriwell.
Mebbe you no beat.”

“It will be a cinch,” said South-paw. “I’m going to pitch.”

“You no got swelled head nor anything?” mumbled Crowfoot.

“Keep your eye on me,” advised Buzzsaw. “I’ve got it in for that feller
Merriwell. He hit me when I wasn’t looking, and I’ll hand him his pay
if he ever gets round to third base. That’s my position.”

“What you do to him?”

“Spike him if I get a chance. Watch me. See him come up to third, and
watch me if I get the ball. Will I tag him with it? Will I? I’ll bang
it onto his muzzle and send him to the dentist’s for new teeth.”

“You got heap bad grudge,” said Crowfoot. “Much fun to see you knock-um
teeth out of Merriwell feller. Old Joe he laugh when he see it. It give
him big fun.”

“Let’s play poker and cut out the talk,” urged Clinker.

Crowfoot took another drink, and the game continued, with the old
savage nodding and blinking over his cards. Apparently he was half
doped by the liquor; yet, strange to say, try as they might, they could
not seem to win a great deal of his money. He had most astonishing
luck. Repeatedly Stover, who could manipulate the cards, put up a hand
to win, only to have Crowfoot drop out or show down a better hand.
Gradually the third baseman of the Outlaws grew ugly and resentful.

“Rotten luck!” he growled.

“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Good luck for Shangowah.”

“The old sinner is a shark at the game,” muttered Warwhoop.

“Sharks should be harpooned,” said South-paw under his breath.

They arranged it without spoken words to sink the harpoon into old Joe.
Under cover Buzzsaw showed Warwhoop three aces in his hand, and Clinker
passed him the fourth.

Then old Joe dropped out, although he had already pushed eight dollars
into the pot. Gathering up the Indian’s cards, Pope managed to get a
look at them and gasped with amazement; for Crowfoot had put down three
queens and a pair of ten spots. Thenceforth for a time South-paw felt
certain it was sheer blundering luck which prevented the uninvited
guest from losing his last dollar.

Once, as Crowfoot seemed dozing, Stover attempted deftly to purloin a
stack of coins from the Indian’s pile. Joe lurched forward and put out
his hand as if to save himself; his fingers closed on Buzzsaw’s wrist,
and he woke up.

“Hello!” he muttered. “What you do? You make-um little mistake. You
think mebbe my dough belong to you.”

“I was just pushing it back from the edge of the table, so that you
wouldn’t knock it all over the floor,” said Buzzsaw sourly.

“Heap much oblige,” said Crowfoot. “Shangowah do as much for you
sometime, mebbe.”

Gradually they began to wonder and suspect. Finally there came a heavy
pot, in which, at the start, every one lingered. Gentle Willie and
Warwhoop were finally driven out; but, with Crowfoot between them,
Buzzsaw and South-paw continued to raise. Again Stover had made up a
hand, and this time, having discarded an ace, he felt confident that
his four kings must win. At last it seemed that the old redskin had
been lured into a trap.

When the show-down came Pope dropped his hand, and Stover triumphantly
displayed the four kings.

“Pretty good,” mumbled old Joe. “How you like-um these?”

He lay down four aces!

“Crooked work!” snarled Stover fiercely. “I discarded an ace myself.”

“Oh, you make little mistake,” protested old Joe. “You no have ace.”

“Wait! Don’t you touch that pot!” cried Buzzsaw, as he grabbed the
discards and turned them. “Look--look at this! Here’s the ace I
discarded.”

He picked the ace of diamonds out of the discards.

“Ugh!” gurgled old Joe. “Heap funny. Lemme see. Lemme look at back of
that card.”

Stover turned it over.

“Waugh!” exploded Shangowah, pointing a soiled finger at the
pasteboard. “That no belong in pack. Back of that card not like others.”

It was true, and before their eyes Crowfoot turned his own cards,
revealing that they belonged to the pack with which they were playing.

“You try to soak-um me,” he sneered. “You slip ’nother card in pack so
you can make bluff old Joe cheat.”

Stover was staggered for a moment, but, as Crowfoot reached out to
gather in the pot, Buzzsaw uttered a yell and sprang from his chair,
seizing the redskin. On the other side South-paw Pope did the same, and
Clinker, upsetting his own chair, came quickly to their assistance.

Crowfoot had started to rise. As he did this a pack of cards slipped
out of his clothes somewhere and fluttered over the floor. Gentle
Willie grabbed up several of them and looked at the backs.

“What do you think!” he cried. “These cards are like the odd one in the
pack we’ve been using! The Injun substituted that odd card!”

“Kill him!” raged Buzzsaw.




CHAPTER XXVII.

SHANGOWAH’S BACKERS.


When young Joe and Dick arrived at the room of the Indians in the
Sunset House they were astonished to find it empty. The door had
remained locked, but old Joe Crowfoot was not to be found in that room.
Young Joe even looked beneath the bed in search of him.

“He’s gone,” said Dick. “He’s not here.”

“But how could he get out?” muttered the young Indian, puzzled and
dismayed. “I had the key, and the door was locked, as you saw.”

Merriwell thrust his head out of the window and looked down to the
ground. The room was a second-story one.

“Perhaps he jumped.”

“No,” said young Joe positively, “he didn’t do that.”

“I’m not so sure of it. I’ve seen the time when he would think nothing
of dropping out of a window this distance from the ground.”

“That time is past. Really, Dick, my grandfather is getting old and
feeble. He’s not the man he was. I’ve seen a great change in him. I
doubt if he could jump from this window to the ground without injuring
himself.”

“Old as he is,” returned Dick, “I’ll guarantee, if put to it, or pitted
against a desperate enemy, he would astonish some people. I’ve seen him
before when he seemed nearly all in, and I’ve likewise seen him ‘come
back.’”

Dick opened the closet door and peered into it. Suddenly he lifted his
hand, with his ear bent toward the closet.

Young Joe stepped swiftly and noiselessly to the Yale man’s side.

A faint smile crept over Dick Merriwell’s face.

“We’ve located Shangowah,” he said, in a low tone, as the sound of
voices came to their ears. “He’s in the adjoining room, and, so help
me! I believe he’s playing poker with a bunch in there.”

Mingled with the murmur of voices they heard the clinking of money and
shuffling of cards.

“You’re right,” whispered young Joe. “But how did he get in there?”

Even as he asked that question his eyes answered it, for he discovered
the opening high up at the back of the closet, and he knew the old
Indian had mounted the shelves, squirmed through that opening and
entered the next room in a decidedly unusual manner.

“He will play poker and he will drink,” muttered young Joe. “He says
he’s too old to abandon such habits, though he’s rather proud because
his grandson has listened to the counsel of Injun Heart and never
become a confirmed victim of such practices.

“It’s ten to one.” Joe went on, as he closed the closet door, “that
he’s fallen in with a bunch of sharks, and he’s in poor condition to
take care of himself.”

“If that is true,” laughed Dick, “it will be something unusual; for,
sober or otherwise, I’ve never yet seen Shangowah in such a condition
that he could not look after number one. However, I think it will be
well enough to get in there if we can and pry him away from that bunch.”

As they reached the door of the other room the sound of loud, angry,
and excited voices came to their ears, Merriwell’s hand fell on the
doorknob, but the door was locked.

“Kill him!” shouted a voice within the room.

Dick stepped back two strides, then he flung himself forward, and his
shoulder crashed against the door, which flew open, the lock broken.

Into that room leaped the two youths red and white. In a twinkling they
had seized old Crowfoot’s assailants and sent them reeling right and
left. The aged Indian was torn free from the hostile hands that had
clutched him.

“Ugh!” he grunted stoically. “Heap much obliged.”

“What’s the row in here?” demanded Dick Merriwell.

Buzzsaw Stover gathered himself up from the corner into which he had
spun from the hand of Merriwell.

“We caught that dirty old wolf cheating!” he howled hoarsely. “He
substituted a card from a pack of his own.”

“Ugh!” grunted old Joe once more. “You cheat. You put up one, two,
three, and some more little job on old Crowfoot. You think he not see?
You think he no have eyes? He see you monkey with pasteboards. He see
other man pass you card under table. He see you try to swipe stack of
money from him. Cheat? You biggest blame thief on two legs!”

“It’s a lie!” panted Stover. “I’ll choke the breath out of the old
robber! Come on, fellows! Going to let these two kids come in here and
bluff us?”

His companions answered with vicious cries, and, following his example,
proceeded to attack the intruders.

During the next few moments there were lively times in that room.
If those Outlaws fancied that by superior strength and overwhelming
numbers they were going to have a snap with their opponents, they
fooled themselves to the limit. Young Joe Crowfoot could use his
fists with all the skill of a finished boxer; and, side by side with
Merriwell, he took care of his share of the assailants. Gentle Willie
Touch got a punch in the wind that promptly put him hors de combat, and
Warwhoop Clinker was given a thump on the bugle that nearly drove his
proboscis back into his face.

Meanwhile, South-paw Pope had “got his” from Dick, and once more
Merriwell reached for Buzzsaw’s jaw and found it. Stover dropped into
the same corner from which he had lately emerged and sat very limp and
dazed, prevented from keeling over by the angle of the partitions.

While this was taking place old Joe Crowfoot calmly proceeded to rake
his own money off the table and take possession of the big jack pot
which had brought about the clash. The money piled in front of the
chairs at which the Indian’s associates in the game had sat was left
untouched.

“Now we puckachee,” said old Joe; “we vamoose. We make a sneak.”

He wabbled a bit as he passed through the open door. Dick and young Joe
followed him, leaving the Outlaws to recover.

“Oh! oh!” gasped Gentle Willie. “I’ll never draw a full breath again.”

“My nose!” groaned Clinker, whose face was an unpleasant, gory
spectacle.

Pope made his complaint, but for the time being Stover had nothing to
say.

Having recovered a short time later, however, Buzzsaw raged like a
lunatic.

“There’ll be murder in this town!” he snarled. “I’ll have that feller
Merriwell’s hide before another day is over.”

“Are we going to let that old Injun get away with the money?” asked
Pope.

“No!” was the furious answer. “We’ll take it away from him. Come on,
let’s find him.”

But they looked for Shangowah in vain. When they finally inquired at
the desk they were informed that old Crowfoot and young Joe had settled
and left the hotel for good. No one knew where they had gone.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

BATTED OUT.


To the satisfaction of Bob Harrison, an astonishingly large crowd of
people turned out to watch that baseball game. The manager of the
Outlaws realized it was doubtful if a bigger attendance would have
appeared had Manager Loring stood by his agreement to put the regular
Springs’ team onto the field. Harrison could not appreciate the fact
that a host of tourists in town knew about the college men who were
to play, and had a keen desire to see what they could do against the
dreaded Outlaws. He imagined the crowd had been drawn out solely on
account of the reputation of his star team.

Mr. Archie Ling was one of the spectators, and for a time he sought in
vain some one who had the courage to bet on the collegians.

“Really,” said Mr. Ling disappointedly, “I’ve heard some people say
they thought the youngsters had a chance in this game, but ’pon my word
I can’t find anybody who cares to back them. I’d like a little wager,
you understand. That would make it interesting.”

Some one touched him on the shoulder, and, looking round, to his
disgust he discovered, an arm’s length away, the same old Indian who
had offended him by appearing on the veranda of the hotel the previous
evening.

“Ugh!” grunted old Crowfoot. “You make little bet? How much you bet on
Outlaw men?”

“Go away,” said Ling, fanning old Joe off and turning up his dainty
nose.

“You make bet talk,” persisted old Joe. “You shoot-um off your mouth.
How much you bet?”

“Why, you haven’t any money.”

“How much you bet?” repeated the old redskin. “You bet five hundred
plunk, old Joe he cover it.”

“Five--five hundred plunks!” gurgled Ling. “Why, you never saw so
much money in your life. I doubt if you have five cents in your dirty
clothes.”

Then Crowfoot dug up a huge leather sack, which clinked significantly
and seemed to be stuffed to overflowing. Pulling the strings of this
pouch, the redskin showed that it was filled with gold and silver coins.

“How much you bet?” he again demanded.

“Why--why,” spluttered Ling, aghast, “where did you get it?”

“None your blame business,” was the answer. “You go five hundred dol’
on Outlaw men?”

“Five hundred dollars! Why, no, indeed!”

“How much you bet?” again came the question; “one hundred dol’?”

“No, indeed! I--I’d like to make a little wager just to--just to have
it interesting. I’ll bet--oh--er--about five dollars.”

With a grunt of unspeakable disgust, Crowfoot yanked at the bag
strings, closing the sack, which he again stowed away upon his person.

“Five dol’!” he sneered. “You big piker. You tin horn bluffer. You make
heap much loud chin. Old Joe no waste time to bet little candy money
with dude.”

Mr. Ling hastily retreated, his face crimson, his ears offended by the
loud laughter of the spectators.

The practice of the Outlaws was of that accurate, easy, professional
order which marks the work of big teams. The youngsters likewise
practiced well, but they lacked the cool atmosphere of indifference and
certainty which characterized the professionals.

A man known to be a fair and impartial umpire had been secured.
Confident of an all too easy victory, the Outlaws permitted the captain
of the opposing team to name this official, and Dick took the man he
was advised to take by Loring.

The toss of a coin gave the Outlaws the choice, and they took the
field. The umpire called “play,” and the game began with South-paw Pope
on the slab.

“Eat ’em alive!” roared Stover.

“Mow ’em down!” shouted Nutty McLoon.

“Be gentle with them!” pleaded Willie Touch.

“Wow! wow!” barked Warwhoop Clinker. “It will be an awful massacre.”

“We’ve never had such a snap as this,” laughed Smiling Joe Brinkley.

Now possibly four out of five of the spectators fully expected to
witness a one-sided game, with the Outlaws making a runaway from the
very start; and when Stover mowed down Arlington and Blessed Jones at
the pan, neither of those batters even touching the ball, it seemed
such a sure thing that some sporting individuals were willing to wager
that the youngsters would not score at all.

Moving about, old Joe Crowfoot picked up bets here and there. With one
man he bet one hundred even that the collegians would get half as many
runs as the Outlaws; with another he wagered that Merriwell’s pick-ups
would make as many hits as their opponents; in fact, they found him
ready, as long as his money lasted, to lay almost any sort of a bet on
the youthful antagonists of the professionals.

It created universal surprise when young Joe Crowfoot got a clean
single off Pope. Following this, however, Buckhart popped to the
infield, and the collegians left the bench.

“Start right in on the kid, Clinker,” urged Stover savagely. “Let’s
give him a drop to start with. Let’s take the conceit out of him. Wait
till I face him!”

Clinker tried to start things going, but he hit a ball on the upper
side of his bat and popped it high into the air for Duncan Ross, who
was covering first base.

“Rotten!” complained Warwhoop, seating himself disgustedly on the bench.

Kennedy banged a hot one against the shins of Tucker at short, and
Tommy fumbled long enough for Grouch to canter easily over first.

“We’re off! We’re going!” roared Buzzsaw.

Tucker was saying a few uncomplimentary things to himself, but Dick
Merriwell did not seem greatly disturbed.

Long Tom Hix bumped a Texas leaguer over the infield, and Kennedy, on
the jump, crossed second, keeping on toward third.

Joe Crowfoot, coming in fast from center field, took the ball in the
bound and whipped it like a whistling bullet to Jimmy Lozier at third.

The coacher yelled a warning at Kennedy, who suddenly realized that
he could not make the sack. A moment later the crowd was filled with
excitement, as the youngsters trapped Kennedy on the base line and
attempted to run him down.

Again Tommy Tucker made a mess of it. He it was who fumbled a throw and
gave Kennedy the chance to dash past him back to second base.

“Oh, I’m pretty good, I am!” said Tommy. “I’m playing for the Outlaws
to-day. I’m afraid they won’t get a score, and I’m doing my best to
help them along.”

The Outlaws scoffed and sneered at the youngsters.

His eyes gleaming viciously, Buzzsaw Stover walked to the plate, bat in
hand.

“Hand one over, you young snipe,” he rasped at Dick, “and I’ll hit it a
mile!”

He missed the first ball cleanly, with Merriwell smiling at him in an
exasperating manner. The next one was wide, but, immediately following,
Buzzsaw struck again.

Bat and ball met with a crack, and the sphere, shooting at Tommy
Tucker, touched the ground once. The little chap took that hot one
cleanly. Like a flash of light he snapped the ball to third for a
force-out, and Lozier, making a beautiful throw, hummed it down to
second for a double.

The spectators rose and shouted, while the Outlaws stared in
wonderment. Stover could not find language to express his feelings.

“That’s the way to redeem yourself, Thomas,” laughed Dick, as he jogged
toward the bench with Tucker at his side.

“You little no-good runt!” gurgled Bigelow. “I’d like to hug you. A few
moments ago I had to hold myself hard to keep from rushing out there to
kick you.”

“I was fooling ’em, Bouncer,” grinned Tommy. “They thought they could
all pound the horsehide through me.”

It was Merriwell’s turn to hit.

“Get busy with that conceited bottle of buttermilk, South-paw,” urged
Stover. “Show him up.”

Pope grinned and gave Dick one on the outside corner.

A moment later the crowd was yelling, as Nutty McLoon, far out in the
field, went wildly racing after the sphere.

Over first and second and on toward third ran Dick. McLoon got the
ball and returned it in the diamond, causing Tommy Tucker, dancing
wildly on the coaching line, to make frantic gestures for Merriwell to
stop at the third sack.

Fortunately, Dick had been warned by old Joe Crowfoot, and he had
his eye on Buzzsaw Stover. As he came up to the sack he saw Stover,
standing close by the bag, prepared for something. Then Buzzsaw did his
prettiest to jab his elbow into Dick’s wind for what might have been a
knockout.

Stover never knew exactly what happened to him, but he found himself
spinning end over end, and Tucker was compelled to dodge to get out
of his way. He picked himself up off the turf, the most amazed man in
Colorado Springs. He was likewise infuriated, and started to rush at
Dick. When he saw Merriwell ready and waiting, however, he changed his
mind.

“What in blazes do you mean?” he snarled.

“You want to be careful with your elbows and your spikes to-day, Mr.
Stover,” said Dick. “Likewise, I’d advise you, if you have occasion to
tag me, not to attempt to knock out any of my teeth. I shall be looking
at you all the time.”

Some of Stover’s companions were inclined to rush at Dick in a bullying
manner, but the crowd rose and made it plain that sympathy lay with the
youngster.

“Here, here!” shouted Harrison from the bench. “Let up on that
business, boys! We won’t have to scrap to take this game in a walk.”

They knew the old man meant it by his tone, and they likewise knew it
was policy to obey him.

Lozier, who followed Dick, took a signal from the Yale man at third and
batted the ball into the diamond.

Merriwell came home like a streak, sliding safely, in spite of the
effort to stop him from scoring. This attempt to get Dick at the plate
gave Lozier time to reach first.

South-paw Pope was exasperated. He heard the crowd shout its delight
and distinguished in the midst of that tumult the sound of a wild,
shrill warwhoop that came from the lips of a well-satisfied old redskin
who had bet his last dollar on the college boys.

Old Greg McGregor jogged into the batter’s box and let two wide ones
pass. Then he found one of Pope’s benders for a safety in right that
sent Lozier all the way to third.

The Outlaws were amazed and possibly somewhat rattled. At any rate,
Dead-eye Jack Roony made a poor throw to second when McGregor attempted
to steal, and the runner was safe.

Duncan Ross fouled out.

“The little flurry is over, Pope,” cried Long Tom Hix. “We’ll take ’em
in order now. Let the two kids cool their heels on the sacks.”

Tucker scarcely looked like a hitter as he stood at the plate twiddling
his bat. He looked even less so when he missed Pope’s first ball by a
foot. But a moment later he bumped an easy hit through the infield, and
both Lozier and McGregor raced home.

“Oh, my, how easy!” whooped Tommy. “It’s pie! it’s pie! We’ll bat him
out of the box.”

Chester Arlington had caught the fever. He followed with a stinging
two-sacker, which carried Tucker to the pan.

The crowd was cheering and laughing; Bob Harrison was astounded and
furious. The exasperated manager roared at Pope threateningly, and
South-paw vowed to stop the “doings” right away.

He vowed in vain. Jones hit safely, and Arlington scored. Then young
Joe emulated Arlington in hitting, and old Blessed added another tally.

Manager Harrison had a fit.

“Come in here, Pope!” he thundered. “You’re on the bum! Go out there
and stop this business, Brown!”

The collegians had batted the great south-paw twirler off the slab!




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE FINISH.


Wopsy Bill Brown had better luck to start with. Buckhart hit the
ball hard, it is true, but the sailing sphere was gathered in by an
outfielder, and Crowfoot lodged on third.

Dick likewise banged the horsehide far into the outfield, but again it
was caught, which retired the youngsters after they had made six runs.

The Outlaws went to bat determined to change the aspect of affairs in a
hurry. Imagine their astonishment when Merriwell smilingly mowed down
three men in quick order.

Up to the beginning of the seventh inning Wopsy Bill held the
collegians successfully, although twice the youngsters pushed a runner
round to third. The Outlaws fought savagely, trying in various ways to
frighten their opponents, but failing utterly.

The seventh opened with Buckhart at bat, and he led off with a smash
that netted three sacks.

Dick hit safely a moment later, scoring Brad. Lozier bunted and died at
first, while Dick took second.

Old Greg McGregor showed his mettle by drawing a two-sacker that gave
the youngsters still another tally. Merriwell kept his eyes on Stover
as he crossed third, and Buzzsaw did not dare try any dirty tricks.

When Duncan Ross followed with a hit, Bob Harrison went into the air
and yanked Wopsy off the plate.

Strawberry Lane, the only remaining pitcher of the Outlaws, went in to
stem the tide.

“Too late! too late!” came the cry from the crowd. “They’ve got the
game now.”

Like Brown, Lane succeeded in checking the run getting for the time
being, striking out Tucker and forcing Arlington to lift an easy fly.

In the last of the seventh the Outlaws obtained their one and only
tally. Stover struck out to begin with and retired to the bench, his
heart bitter with hatred for Dick Merriwell.

McLoon, coming next, hit along the third-base line, and the ball
caromed off Lozier’s bare right hand. Nutty ran wild over first, and
Lozier, trying to get him at second, caught the ball up swiftly and
made a bad throw.

Over third McLoon sped, and McGregor, who had tried to back up second,
completed the unfortunate series of errors by throwing wide to the
plate.

“Now,” snarled Buzzsaw Stover, “let’s keep right at it and make a
hundred.”

A few moments later, Merriwell had cut down Smiling Joe Brinkley and
Gentle Willie Touch, and Buzzsaw went to third sore as a flea-bitten
cur.

In the eighth there came near being a riot when Stover tried to spike
Blessed Jones, who had reached third on a single, a sacrifice by
Crowfoot, and a steal. The umpire promptly informed the vicious third
sacker of the Outlaws that he would be put out of the game if he tried
any more such contemptible tricks.

Jones scored on a safety by Buckhart.

Dick hit one into centre field and was out.

Lozier fanned a few seconds later.

There was no further run getting on either side. In the eighth and
ninth innings Merriwell was invincible on the slab. Those amazed
Outlaws could do nothing whatever with his delivery, and the delighted
spectators simply shouted themselves hoarse. Never had Harrison’s stars
received such a drubbing, the final score being nine to one against
them.

The college lads were congratulated on every hand. Old Joe Crowfoot
found young Joe and looked him over approvingly.

“You make heap fair baseball player bimeby, mebbe,” said the old chief.
“You learn some, mebbe. Old Joe he clear up good thing to-day. He have
money ’nough to-night so you pay two year at Yale school. He reckon he
hand-um it over so he no lose it.”

Bob Harrison shouldered his way through the crowd and reached Dick
Merriwell.

“Look here,” he called; “look here, young fellow, you certainly was
loaded with horseshoes to-day. It was the biggest accident that ever
happened. Play us again. Play us to-morrow, and we won’t leave you in
the shape of anything. I’ll call off a date with Cheyenne in order to
play you.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Harrison,” smiled Dick; “but it will be impossible
for us to give you another game. My pick-up team disbands to-night, as
business will make it necessary for several of the players to leave the
Springs to-morrow.”

“Yah! You’re afraid!” cried Harrison. “You don’t dare play another
game.”

“Go ’way back and set down,” grunted old Joe Crowfoot. “He beat-um you
any time you play. You have big team of stars? Waugh! No good!”

Then several of the bystanders stepped between Harrison and the old
redskin to prevent the exasperated manager from laying violent hands on
Shangowah.

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening Dick and June sat talking in low tones on the hotel
veranda.

“Buckhart,” said Dick, “has an uncle on a ranch up North, and we’re
going up there. It was a great treat to meet you here, June.”

“It was fine, Dick,” she returned. “Oh, it was just splendid to watch
the game to-day! It seemed like old times. We are leaving to-morrow.”

“Going back home?”

“Yes. Chester and I decided that we ought to go right away. I’m
sorry we can’t all stay here a little longer, for it has been very
pleasant--very pleasant----”

His hand found hers and held it tightly.

“It has been the pleasantest feature of my summer, June,” he declared.

In the shadows he lifted her hand to his lips.

“Till we meet again, June!” he whispered.

“Till we meet again, Dick!”


THE END.


Don’t fail to ask for No: 190 of the MERRIWELL SERIES, entitled “Dick
Merriwell’s Intuition,” by Burt L. Standish.




_NOTE THE NEW TITLES LISTED_

Western Story Library

For Everyone Who Likes Adventure

Ted Strong and his band of broncho-busters have most exciting
adventures in this line of attractive big books, and furnish the reader
with an almost unlimited number of thrills.

If you like a really good Western cowboy story, then this line is made
expressly for you.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

   1--Ted Strong, Cowboy                  By Edward C. Taylor
   2--Ted Strong Among the Cattlemen      By Edward C. Taylor
   3--Ted Strong’s Black Mountain Ranch   By Edward C. Taylor
   4--Ted Strong With Rifle and Lasso     By Edward C. Taylor
   5--Ted Strong Lost in the Desert       By Edward C. Taylor
   6--Ted Strong Fighting the Rustlers    By Edward C. Taylor
   7--Ted Strong and the Rival Miners     By Edward C. Taylor
   9--Ted Strong on a Mountain Trail      By Edward C. Taylor
  10--Ted Strong Across the Prairie       By Edward C. Taylor
  11--Ted Strong Out For Big Game         By Edward C. Taylor
  12--Ted Strong, Challenged              By Edward C. Taylor
  13--Ted Strong’s Close Call             By Edward C. Taylor
  14--Ted Strong’s Passport               By Edward C. Taylor
  15--Ted Strong’s Nebraska Ranch         By Edward C. Taylor
  16--Ted Strong’s Cattle Drive           By Edward C. Taylor
  17--Ted Strong’s Stampede               By Edward C. Taylor
  18--Ted Strong’s Prairie Trail          By Edward C. Taylor
  19--Ted Strong’s Surprise               By Edward C. Taylor
  20--Ted Strong’s Wolf Hunters           By Edward C. Taylor
  22--Ted Strong in Colorado              By Edward C. Taylor
  25--Ted Strong’s Search                 By Edward C. Taylor
  26--Ted Strong’s Diamond Mine           By Edward C. Taylor
  27--Ted Strong’s Manful Task            By Edward C. Taylor
  28--Ted Strong, Manager                 By Edward C. Taylor
  30--Ted Strong’s Gold Mine              By Edward C. Taylor
  32--Ted Strong’s Wild Horse             By Edward C. Taylor
  34--Ted Strong’s Stowaway               By Edward C. Taylor
  35--Ted Strong’s Prize Herd             By Edward C. Taylor
  36--Ted Strong’s Trouble                By Edward C. Taylor
  37--Ted Strong’s Mettle                 By Edward C. Taylor
  38--Ted Strong’s Big Business           By Edward C. Taylor
  39--Ted Strong’s Treasure Cave          By Edward C. Taylor
  40--Ted Strong’s Vanishing Island       By Edward C. Taylor
  43--Ted Strong’s Contract               By Edward C. Taylor
  44--Ted Strong’s Stolen Pinto           By Edward C. Taylor
  45--Ted Strong’s Saddle Pard            By Edward C. Taylor
  46--Ted Strong and the Sioux Players    By Edward C. Taylor
  47--Ted Strong’s Bronchos               By Edward C. Taylor
  48--Ted Strong’s Ranch War              By Edward C. Taylor
  49--Ted Strong and the Cattle Raiders   By Edward C. Taylor
  50--Ted Strong’s Great Round-up         By Edward C. Taylor
  51--Ted Strong’s Big Horn Trail         By Edward C. Taylor
  52--Ted Strong in Bandit Cañon          By Edward C. Taylor
  53--Ted Strong at Z-Bar Ranch           By Edward C. Taylor
  55--Ted Strong’s Border Battle          By Edward C. Taylor
  56--Ted Strong on U. P. Duty            By Edward C. Taylor
  57--Ted Strong’s Lariat Duel            By Edward C. Taylor
  58--Ted Strong’s Vigilantes             By Edward C. Taylor
  59--Ted Strong’s Mesa Foe               By Edward C. Taylor
  60--Ted Strong Tries Prospecting        By Edward C. Taylor
  61--Ted Strong’s Desert Round-up        By Edward C. Taylor
  62--Ted Strong at Lost Gulch            By Edward C. Taylor
  63--Ted Strong on an Outlaw’s Trail     By Edward C. Taylor
  64--Ted Strong and the Two-Gun Men      By Edward C. Taylor
  65--Ted Strong’s Rodeo Ride             By Edward C. Taylor
  66--Ted Strong’s Ivory-Handled Gun      By Edward C. Taylor
  67--Ted Strong’s Redskin Pal            By Edward C. Taylor
  68--Ted Strong and the Sagebrush Kid    By Edward C. Taylor
  69--Ted Strong’s Rustler Round-up       By Edward C. Taylor




ROMANCE

ADVENTURE

MYSTERY

All types of stories are represented in this catalogue. The S & S
novels are the world’s greatest entertainment at a price that truly
entitles them to be termed:

THE RIGHT BOOKS AT THE RIGHT PRICE




NICK CARTER STORIES

New Magnet Library

_Not a Dull Book in This List_

ALL BY NICHOLAS CARTER

Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that
the books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the
work of a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no
other type of fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of
new plots and situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from
all sorts of troubles and landed the criminal just where he should
be--behind the bars.

The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories
than any other single person.

Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been
selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of
them as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth
covers which sells at ten times the price.

If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet
Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

   850--Wanted: A Clew
   851--A Tangled Skein
   852--The Bullion Mystery
   853--The Man of Riddles
   854--A Miscarriage of Justice
   855--The Gloved Hand
   856--Spoilers and the Spoils
   857--The Deeper Game
   858--Bolts from Blue Skies
   859--Unseen Foes
   860--Knaves in High Places
   861--The Microbe of Crime
   862--In the Toils of Fear
   863--A Heritage of Trouble
   864--Called to Account
   865--The Just and the Unjust
   866--Instinct at Fault
   867--A Rogue Worth Trapping
   868--A Rope of Slender Threads
   869--The Last Call
   870--The Spoils of Chance
   871--A Struggle with Destiny
   872--The Slave of Crime
   873--The Crook’s Blind
   874--A Rascal of Quality
   875--With Shackles of Fire
   876--The Man Who Changed Faces
   877--The Fixed Alibi
   878--Out with the Tide
   879--The Soul Destroyers
   880--The Wages of Rascality
   881--Birds of Prey
   882--When Destruction Threatens
   883--The Keeper of Black Hounds
   884--The Door of Doubt
   885--The Wolf Within
   886--A Perilous Parole
   887--The Trail of the Finger Prints
   888--Dodging the Law
   889--A Crime in Paradise
   890--On the Ragged Edge
   891--The Red God of Tragedy
   892--The Man Who Paid
   893--The Blind Man’s Daughter
   894--One Object in Life
   895--As a Crook Sows
   896--In Record Time
   897--Held in Suspense
   898--The $100,000 Kiss
   899--Just One Slip
   900--On a Million-dollar Trail
   901--A Weird Treasure
   902--The Middle Link
   903--To the Ends of the Earth
   904--When Honors Pall
   905--The Yellow Brand
   906--A New Serpent in Eden
   907--When Brave Men Tremble
   908--A Test of Courage
   909--Where Peril Beckons
   910--The Gargoni Girdle
   911--Rascals & Co.
   912--Too Late to Talk
   913--Satan’s Apt Pupil
   914--The Girl Prisoner
   915--The Danger of Folly
   916--One Shipwreck Too Many
   917--Scourged by Fear
   918--The Red Plague
   919--Scoundrels Rampant
   920--From Clew to Clew
   921--When Rogues Conspire
   922--Twelve In a Grave
   923--The Great Opium Case
   924--A Conspiracy of Rumors
   925--A Klondike Claim
   926--The Evil Formula
   927--The Man of Many Faces
   928--The Great Enigma
   929--The Burden of Proof
   930--The Stolen Brain
   931--A Titled Counterfeiter
   932--The Magic Necklace
   933--’Round the World for a Quarter
   934--Over the Edge of the World
   935--In the Grip of Fate
   936--The Case of Many Clews
   937--The Sealed Door
   938--Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men
   939--The Man Without a Will
   940--Tracked Across the Atlantic
   941--A Clew from the Unknown
   942--The Crime of a Countess
   943--A Mixed-up Mess
   944--The Great Money-order Swindle
   945--The Adder’s Brood
   946--A Wall Street Haul
   947--For a Pawned Crown
   948--Scaled Orders
   949--The Hate that Kills
   950--The American Marquis
   951--The Needy Nine
   952--Fighting Against Millions
   953--Outlaws of the Blue
   954--The Old Detective’s Pupil
   955--Found in the Jungle
   956--The Mysterious Mail Robbery
   957--Broken Bars
   958--A Fair Criminal
   959--Won by Magic
   960--The Plano Box Mystery
   961--The Man They Held Back
   962--A Millionaire Partner
   963--A Pressing Peril
   964--An Australian Klondike
   965--The Sultan’s Pearls
   966--The Double Shuffle Club
   967--Paying the Price
   968--A Woman’s Hand
   969--A Network of Crime
   970--At Thompson’s Ranch
   971--The Crossed Needles
   972--The Diamond Mine Case
   973--Blood Will Tell
   974--An Accidental Password
   975--The Crook’s Double
   976--Two Plus Two
   977--The Yellow Label
   978--The Clever Celestial
   979--The Amphitheater Plot
   980--Gideon Drexel’s Millions
   981--Death in Life
   982--A Stolen Identity
   983--Evidence by Telephone
   984--The Twelve Tin Boxes
   985--Clew Against Clew
   986--Lady Velvet
   987--Playing a Bold Game
   988--A Dead Man’s Grip
   989--Snarled Identities
   990--A Deposit Vault Puzzle
   991--The Crescent Brotherhood
   992--The Stolen Pay Train
   993--The Sea Fox
   994--Wanted by Two Clients
   995--The Van Alstine Case
   996--Check No. 777
   997--Partners in Peril
   998--Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé
   999--The Sign of the Crossed Knives
  1000--The Man Who Vanished
  1001--A Battle for the Right
  1002--A Game of Craft
  1003--Nick Carter’s Retainer
  1004--Caught in the Toils
  1005--A Broken Bond
  1006--The Crime of the French Café
  1007--The Man Who Stole Millions
  1008--The Twelve Wise Men
  1009--Hidden Foes
  1010--A Gamblers’ Syndicate
  1011--A Chance Discovery
  1012--Among the Counterfeiters
  1013--A Threefold Disappearance
  1014--At Odds with Scotland Yard
  1015--A Princess of Crime
  1016--Found on the Beach
  1017--A Spinner of Death
  1018--The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor
  1019--A Bogus Clew
  1020--The Puzzle of Five Pistols
  1021--The Secret of the Marble Mantel
  1022--A Bite of an Apple
  1023--A Triple Crime
  1024--The Stolen Race Horse
  1025--Wildfire
  1026--A _Herald_ Personal
  1027--The Finger of Suspicion
  1028--The Crimson Clew
  1029--Nick Carter Down East
  1030--The Chain of Clews
  1031--A Victim of Circumstances
  1032--Brought to Bay
  1033--The Dynamite Trap
  1034--A Scrap of Black Lace
  1035--The Woman of Evil
  1036--A Legacy of Hate
  1037--A Trusted Rogue
  1038--Man Against Man
  1039--The Demons of the Night
  1040--The Brotherhood of Death
  1041--At the Knife’s Point
  1042--A Cry for Help
  1043--A Stroke of Policy
  1044--Hounded to Death
  1045--A Bargain in Crime
  1046--The Fatal Prescription
  1047--The Man of Iron
  1048--An Amazing Scoundrel
  1049--The Chain of Evidence
  1050--Paid with Death
  1051--A Fight for a Throne
  1052--The Woman of Steel
  1053--The Seal of Death
  1054--The Human Fiend
  1055--A Desperate Chance
  1056--A Chase in the Dark
  1057--The Snare and the Game
  1058--The Murray Hill Mystery
  1059--Nick Carter’s Close Call
  1060--The Missing Cotton King
  1061--A Game of Plots
  1062--The Prince of Liars
  1063--The Man at the Window
  1064--The Red League
  1065--The Price of a Secret
  1066--The Worst Case on Record
  1067--From Peril to Peril
  1068--The Seal of Silence
  1069--Nick Carter’s Chinese Puzzle
  1070--A Blackmailer’s Bluff
  1071--Heard in the Dark
  1072--A Checkmated Scoundrel
  1073--The Cashier’s Secret
  1074--Behind a Mask
  1075--The Cloak of Guilt
  1076--Two Villains in One
  1077--The Hot Air Clew
  1078--Run to Earth
  1079--The Certified Check
  1080--Weaving the Web
  1081--Beyond Pursuit
  1082--The Claws of the Tiger
  1083--Driven from Cover
  1084--A Deal in Diamonds
  1085--The Wizard of the Cue
  1086--A Race for Ten Thousand
  1087--The Criminal Link
  1088--The Red Signal
  1089--The Secret Panel
  1090--A Bonded Villain
  1091--A Move in the Dark
  1092--Against Desperate Odds
  1093--The Telltale Photographs
  1094--The Ruby Pin
  1095--The Queen of Diamonds
  1096--A Broken Trail
  1097--An Ingenious Stratagem
  1098--A Sharper’s Downfall
  1099--A Race Track Gamble
  1100--Without a Clew
  1101--The Council of Death
  1102--The Hole in the Vault
  1103--In Death’s Grip
  1104--A Great Conspiracy
  1105--The Guilty Governor
  1106--A Ring of Rascals
  1107--A Masterpiece of Crime
  1108--A Blow for Vengeance
  1109--Tangled Threads
  1110--The Crime of the Camera
  1111--The Sign of the Dagger
  1112--Nick Carter’s Promise
  1113--Marked for Death
  1114--The Limited Holdup
  1115--When the Trap Was Sprung
  1116--Through the Cellar Wall
  1117--Under the Tiger’s Claws
  1118--The Girl in the Case
  1119--Behind a Throne
  1120--The Lure of Gold
  1121--Hand to Hand
  1122--From a Prison Cell
  1123--Dr. Quartz, Magician
  1124--Into Nick Carter’s Web
  1125--The Mystic Diagram
  1126--The Hand that Won
  1127--Playing a Lone Hand
  1128--The Master Villain
  1129--The False Claimant
  1130--The Living Mask
  1131--The Crime and the Motive
  1132--A Mysterious Foe
  1133--A Missing Man
  1134--A Game Well Played
  1135--A Cigarette Clew
  1136--The Diamond Trail
  1137--The Silent Guardian
  1138--The Dead Stranger
  1140--The Doctor’s Stratagem
  1141--Following a Chance Clew
  1142--The Bank Draft Puzzle
  1143--The Price of Treachery
  1144--The Silent Partner
  1145--Ahead of the Game
  1146--A Trap of Tangled Wire
  1147--In the Gloom of Night
  1148--The Unaccountable Crook
  1149--A Bundle of Clews
  1150--The Great Diamond Syndicate
  1151--The Death Circle
  1152--The Toss of a Penny
  1153--One Step Too Far
  1154--The Terrible Thirteen
  1155--A Detective’s Theory
  1156--Nick Carter’s Auto Trail
  1157--A Triple Identity
  1158--A Mysterious Graft
  1159--A Carnival of Crime
  1160--The Bloodstone Terror
  1161--Trapped in His Own Net
  1162--The Last Move in the Game
  1163--A Victim of Deceit
  1164--With Links of Steel
  1165--A Plaything of Fate
  1166--The Key Ring Clew
  1167--Playing for a Fortune
  1168--At Mystery’s Threshold
  1169--Trapped by a Woman
  1170--The Four Fingered Glove
  1171--Nabob and Knave
  1172--The Broadway Cross
  1173--The Man Without a Conscience
  1174--A Master of Deviltry
  1175--Nick Carter’s Double Catch
  1176--Doctor Quartz’s Quick Move
  1177--The Vial of Death
  1178--Nick Carter’s Star Pupils
  1179--Nick Carter’s Girl Detective
  1180--A Baffled Oath
  1181--A Royal Thief
  1182--Down and Out
  1183--A Syndicate of Rascals
  1184--Played to a Finish
  1185--A Tangled Case
  1186--In Letters of Fire
  1187--Crossed Wires
  1188--A Plot Uncovered
  1189--The Cab Driver’s Secret
  1190--Nick Carter’s Death Warrant
  1191--The Plot that Failed
  1192--Nick Carter’s Masterpiece
  1193--A Prince of Rogues
  1194--In the Lap of Danger
  1195--The Man from London
  1196--Circumstantial Evidence
  1197--The Pretty Stenographer Mystery
  1198--A Villainous Scheme
  1199--A Plot Within a Plot
  1200--The Elevated Railroad Mystery
  1201--The Blow of a Hammer
  1202--The Twin Mystery
  1203--The Bottle with the Black Label
  1204--Under False Colors
  1205--A Ring of Dust
  1206--The Crown Diamond
  1207--The Blood-red Badge
  1208--The Barrel Mystery
  1209--The Photographer’s Evidence
  1210--Millions at Stake
  1211--The Man and His Price
  1212--A Double-Handed Game
  1213--A Strike for Freedom
  1214--A Disciple of Satan
  1215--The Marked Hand
  1216--A Fight with a Fiend
  1217--When the Wicked Prosper
  1218--A Plunge into Crime
  1219--An Artful Schemer
  1220--Reaping the Whirlwind
  1221--Out of Crime’s Depths
  1222--A Woman at Bay
  1223--The Temple of Vice
  1224--Death at the Feast
  1225--A Double Plot

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

  To be published in January, 1928.
    1226--In Search of Himself
    1227--A Hunter of Men

  To be published in February, 1928.
    1228--The Boulevard Mutes
    1229--Captain Sparkle, Pirate
    1230--Nick Carter’s Fall

  To be published in March, 1928.
    1231--Out of Death’s Shadow
    1232--A Voice from the Past

  To be published in April, 1928.
    1233--Accident or Murder?
    1234--The Man Who Was Cursed

  To be published in May, 1928.
    1235--Baffled, But Not Beaten
    1236--A Case Without a Clew

  To be published in June, 1928.
    1237--The Demon’s Eye
    1238--A Blindfold Mystery




BOOKS THAT NEVER GROW OLD

Alger Series

Clean Adventure Stories for Boys

The Most Complete List Published

The following list does not contain all the books that Horatio Alger
wrote, but it contains most of them, and certainly the best.

Horatio Alger is to boys what Charles Dickens is to grown-ups. His
work is just as popular to-day as it was years ago. The books have a
quality, the value of which is beyond computation.

There are legions of boys of foreign parents who are being helped
along the road to true Americanism by reading these books which
are so peculiarly American in tone that the reader cannot fail to
absorb some of the spirit of fair play and clean living which is so
characteristically American.

In this list will be included certain books by Edward Stratemeyer,
Oliver Optic, and other authors who wrote the Alger type of stories,
which are equal in interest and wholesomeness with those written by the
famous author after which this great line of books for boys is named.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

   12--Chester Rand
   13--Grit, the Young Boatman of Pine Point
   14--Joe’s Luck
   15--From Farm Boy to Senator
   16--The Young Outlaw
   17--Jack’s Ward
   18--Dean Dunham
   19--In a New World
   20--Both Sides of the Continent
   22--Brave and Bold
   24--Bob Burton
   26--Julius, the Street Boy
   28--Tom Brace
   29--Struggling Upward
   31--Tom Tracy
   32--The Young Acrobat
   33--Bound to Rise
   34--Hector’s Inheritance
   35--Do and Dare
   36--The Tin Box
   37--Tom, the Bootblack
   38--Risen from the Ranks
   39--Shifting for Himself
   40--Wait and Hope
   41--Sam’s Chance
   42--Striving for Fortune
   43--Phil, the Fiddler
   44--Slow and Sure
   45--Walter Sherwood’s Probation
   47--The Young Salesman
   48--Andy Grant’s Pluck
   49--Facing the World
   50--Luke Walton
   51--Strive and Succeed
   52--From Canal Boy to President
   53--The Erie Train Boy
   54--Paul, the Peddler
   55--The Young Miner
   56--Charlie Codman’s Cruise
   57--A Debt of Honor
   58--The Young Explorer
   59--Ben’s Nugget
   62--Frank Hunter’s Peril
   64--Tom Thatcher’s Fortune
   65--Tom Turner’s Legacy
   66--Dan, the Newsboy
   67--Digging for Gold
   69--In Search of Treasure
   70--Frank’s Campaign
   71--Bernard Brook’s Adventures
   73--Paul Prescott’s Charge
   74--Mark Manning’s Mission
   76--Sink or Swim
   77--The Backwoods Boy
   78--Tom Temple’s Career
   79--Ben Bruce
   80--The Young Musician
   81--The Telegraph Boy
   82--Work and Win
   84--The Cash Boy
   85--Herbert Carter’s Legacy
   86--Strong and Steady
   87--Lost at Sea
   89--Young Captain Jack
   90--Joe, the Hotel Boy
   91--Out for Business
   92--Falling in with Fortune
   93--Nelson, the Newsboy
   94--Randy of the River
   96--Ben Logan’s Triumph
   97--The Young Book Agent
  168--Luck and Pluck
  169--Ragged Dick
  170--Fame and Fortune
  171--Mark, the Match Boy
  172--Rough and Ready
  173--Ben, the Luggage Boy
  174--Rufus and Rose

 By EDWARD STRATEMEYER

   98--The Last Cruise of _The Spitfire_
   99--Reuben Stone’s Discovery
  100--True to Himself
  101--Richard Dare’s Venture
  102--Oliver Bright’s Search
  103--To Alaska for Gold
  104--The Young Auctioneer
  105--Bound to Be an Electrician
  106--Shorthand Tom
  108--Joe, the Surveyor
  109--Larry, the Wanderer
  110--The Young Ranchman
  111--The Young Lumberman
  112--The Young Explorers
  113--Boys of the Wilderness
  114--Boys of the Great Northwest
  115--Boys of the Gold Field
  116--For His Country
  117--Comrades in Peril
  118--The Young Pearl Hunters
  119--The Young Bandmaster
  121--On Fortune’s Trail
  122--Lost in the Land of Ice
  123--Bob, the Photographer

 By OLIVER OPTIC

  124--Among the Missing
  125--His Own Helper
  126--Honest Kit Dunstable
  127--Every Inch a Boy
  128--The Young Pilot
  129--Always in Luck
  130--Rich and Humble
  131--In School and Out
  133--Work and Win
  135--Haste and Waste
  136--Royal Tarr’s Pluck
  137--The Prisoners of the Cave
  138--Louis Chiswick’s Mission
  139--The Professor’s Son
  140--The Young Hermit
  141--The Cruise of _The Dandy_
  142--Building Himself Up
  143--Lyon Hart’s Heroism
  144--Three Young Silver Kings
  145--Making a Man of Himself
  146--Striving for His Own
  147--Through by Daylight
  148--Lightning Express
  149--On Time
  150--Switch Off
  151--Brake Up
  152--Bear and Forbear
  153--The “Starry Flag”
  154--Breaking Away
  155--Seek and Find
  156--Freaks of Fortune
  157--Make or Break
  158--Down the River
  159--The Boat Club
  160--All Aboard
  161--Now or Never
  162--Try Again
  163--Poor and Proud
  164--Little by Little
  165--The Sailor Boy
  166--The Yankee Middy
  167--Brave Old Salt
  175--Fighting for Fortune              By Roy Franklin
  176--The Young Steel Worker      By Frank H. MacDougal
  177--The Go-ahead Boys                By Gale Richards
  178--For the Right                     By Roy Franklin
  179--The Motor Cycle Boys            By Donald Grayson
  180--The Wall Street Boy           By Allan Montgomery
  181--Stemming the Tide                 By Roy Franklin
  182--On High Gear                    By Donald Grayson
  183--A Wall Street Fortune         By Allan Montgomery
  184--Winning by Courage                By Roy Franklin
  185--From Auto to Airship            By Donald Grayson
  186--Camp and Canoe                  By Remson Douglas
  187--Winning Against Odds              By Roy Franklin
  188--The Luck of Vance Sevier      By Frederick Gibson
  189--The Island Castaway               By Roy Franklin
  190--The Boy Marvel              By Frank H. MacDougal
  191--A Boy With a Purpose              By Roy Franklin
  192--The River Fugitives             By Remson Douglas
  193--Out For a Fortune                 By Roy Franklin
  194--The Boy Horse Owner           By Frederick Gibson
  195--Always on Deck                    By Roy Franklin
  196--Paul Hassard’s Peril                By Matt Royal
  197--His Own Master                    By Roy Franklin
  198--When Courage Wins              By Edward S. Ellis
  199--Bound to Get There                By Roy Franklin
  200--Who Was Milton Marr?          By Frederick Gibson
  201--The Lost Mine                     By Roy Franklin
  202--Larry Borden’s Redemption        By Emerson Baker




EVERY BOY

Knows

FRANK MERRIWELL

No other fiction character is half so well known. Why? Well the books
tell why in no uncertain manner




BOOKS OF QUALITY

Select Library

_Big, Popular Standards_

This line is truly named. It is Select because each title in it
has been selected with great care from among hundreds of books by
well-known authors.

A glance over the following list will show the names of Mary J. Holmes,
Marie Corelli, Rider Haggard, “The Duchess,” R. D. Blackmore, and
translations of some of the more famous French authors, like Victor
Hugo and Alphonse Daudet.

If you are looking for books which will add to your knowledge of
literature, a complete set of the Select Library, which is so
reasonably priced, will do more for you than a like amount expended on
ordinary fiction between cloth covers.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

    1--Cousin Maude                              By Mary J. Holmes
    2--Rosamond Leyton                           By Mary J. Holmes
    6--Beulah                                  By Augusta J. Evans
   10--The Homestead on the Hillside             By Mary J. Holmes
   14--East Lynne                               By Mrs. Henry Wood
   16--A Romance of Two Worlds                    By Marie Corelli
   17--Cleopatra                               By H. Rider Haggard
   18--Maggie Miller                             By Mary J. Holmes
   27--Under Two Flags                                  By “Ouida”
   28--Dora Deane                                By Mary J. Holmes
   29--Ardath. Vol. I                             By Marie Corelli
   30--Ardath. Vol. II                            By Marie Corelli
   31--The Light That Failed                    By Rudyard Kipling
   32--Tempest and Sunshine                      By Mary J. Holmes
   35--Inez                                    By Augusta J. Evans
   36--Phyllis                                    By “The Duchess”
   42--Vendetta                                   By Marie Corelli
   43--Sapho                                    By Alphonse Daudet
   44--Lena Rivers                               By Mary J. Holmes
   48--Meadowbrook                               By Mary J. Holmes
   50--Won by Waiting                                By Edna Lyall
   51--Camille                                  By Alexandre Dumas
   53--Uncle Tom’s Cabin                  By Harriet Beecher Stowe
   54--The English Orphans                       By Mary J. Holmes
   57--Ethelyn’s Mistake                         By Mary J. Holmes
   58--Treasure Island                   By Robert Louis Stevenson
   59--Mildred Trevanion                          By “The Duchess”
   60--Dead Man’s Rock               By “Q.” (A. T. Quiller-Couch)
   61--The Iron Pirate                            By Max Pemberton
   62--Molly Bawn                                 By “The Duchess”
   63--Lorna Doone                              By R. D. Blackmore
   66--Airy Fairy Lilian                          By “The Duchess”
   67--The Cruise of the _Cachalot_             By Frank T. Bullen
   69--The Last Days of Pompeii               By Sir Bulwer Lytton
   71--The Duchess                                By “The Duchess”
   72--Plain Tales From the Hills               By Rudyard Kipling
   75--She                                     By H. Rider Haggard
   76--Beatrice                                By H. Rider Haggard
   77--Eric Brighteyes                         By H. Rider Haggard
   78--Beyond the City                           By A. Conan Doyle
   79--Rossmoyne                                  By “The Duchess”
   80--King Solomon’s Mines                    By H. Rider Haggard
   81--She’s All the World to Me                     By Hall Caine
   83--Kidnapped                         By Robert Louis Stevenson
   84--Undercurrents                              By “The Duchess”
   87--The House on the Marsh                   By Florence Warden
   88--The Witch’s Head                        By H. Rider Haggard
   89--A Perilous Secret                          By Charles Reade
   93--Beauty’s Daughters                         By “The Duchess”
  100--Led Astray                               By Octave Feuillet
  102--Marvel                                     By “The Duchess”
  107--The Visits of Elizabeth                      By Elinor Glyn
  108--Allan Quatermain                        By H. Rider Haggard
  110--Soldiers Three                           By Rudyard Kipling
  113--A Living Lie                                By Paul Bourget
  114--Portia                                     By “The Duchess”
  117--John Halifax, Gentleman                      By Miss Mulock
  118--The Tragedy in the Rue de la Paix          By Adolphe Belot
  119--A Princess of Thule                        By William Black
  122--Doris                                      By “The Duchess”
  123--Carmen and Colomba                       By Prosper Merimee
  125--The Master of Ballantrae          By Robert Louis Stevenson
  126--The Toilers of the Sea                       By Victor Hugo
  127--Mrs. Geoffrey                              By “The Duchess”
  129--Love and Shipwreck                      By W. Clark Russell
  130--Beautiful Jim                        By John Strange Winter
  131--Lady Audley’s Secret                  By Miss M. E. Braddon
  132--The Frozen Pirate                       By W. Clark Russell
  133--Rory O’More                                 By Samuel Lover
  134--A Modern Circe                             By “The Duchess”
  135--Foul Play                                  By Charles Reade
  137--I Have Lived and Loved                    By Mrs. Forrester
  138--Elsie Venner                       By Oliver Wendell Holmes
  139--Hans of Iceland                              By Victor Hugo
  141--Lady Valworth’s Diamonds                   By “The Duchess”
  143--John Holdsworth, Chief Mate             By W. Clark Russell
  145--Jess                                    By H. Rider Haggard
  146--The Honorable Mrs. Vereker                 By “The Duchess”
  147--The Dead Secret                           By Wilkie Collins
  148--Ships That Pass in the Night           By Beatrice Harraden
  149--The Suicide Club                  By Robert Louis Stevenson
  150--A Mental Struggle                          By “The Duchess”
  152--Colonel Quaritch, V. C.                 By H. Rider Haggard
  153--The Way of a Siren                         By “The Duchess”
  158--Lady Branksmere                            By “The Duchess”
  159--A Marriage at Sea                       By W. Clark Russell
  162--Dick’s Sweetheart                          By “The Duchess”
  165--Faith and Unfaith                          By “The Duchess”
  166--The Phantom Rickshaw                     By Rudyard Kipling
  209--Rose Mather                               By Mary J. Holmes
  210--At Mather House                           By Mary J. Holmes
  211--Edith Trevor’s Secret                 By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  212--Cecil Rosse                           By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  213--Cecil’s Triumph                       By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  214--Guy Earlscourt’s Wife                  By May Agnes Fleming
  215--The Leighton Homestead                    By Mary J. Holmes
  216--Georgie’s Secret                          By Mary J. Holmes
  217--Lady Kildare                          By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  218--Kathleen’s Strange Husband            By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  219--Millbank                                  By Mary J. Holmes
  220--Magda’s Choice                            By Mary J. Holmes
  221--Sundered Hearts                       By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  222--Bitter Sweet                          By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  223--Edith Lyle’s Secret                       By Mary J. Holmes
  224--Edith’s Daughter                          By Mary J. Holmes
  225--A Wonderful Woman                      By May Agnes Fleming
  226--The Mystery of Bracken Hollow          By May Agnes Fleming
  227--The Haunted Husband                   By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  228--The White Life Endures                By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  229--Darkness and Daylight                     By Mary J. Holmes
  230--The Unloved Husband                       By Mary J. Holmes
  231--Neva’s Three Lovers                   By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  232--Neva’s Choice                         By Mrs. Harriet Lewis




Round the World Library

Stories of Jack Harkaway and His Comrades

Every reader, young and old, has heard of Jack Harkaway. His remarkable
adventures in out-of-the-way corners of the globe are really classics,
and every one should read them.

Jack is a splendid, manly character, full of life and strength and
curiosity. He has a number of very interesting companions--Professor
Mole, for instance, who is very funny. He also has some very strange
enemies, who are anything but funny.

Get interested in Jack. It will pay you.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

By BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG

   1--Jack Harkaway’s School Days
   2--Jack Harkaway’s Friends
   3--Jack Harkaway After School Days
   4--Jack Harkaway Afloat and Ashore
   5--Jack Harkaway Among the Pirates
   6--Jack Harkaway at Oxford
   7--Jack Harkaway’s Struggles
   8--Jack Harkaway’s Triumphs
   9--Jack Harkaway Among the Brigands
  10--Jack Harkaway’s Return
  11--Jack Harkaway Around the World
  12--Jack Harkaway’s Perils
  13--Jack Harkaway in China
  14--Jack Harkaway and the Red Dragon
  15--Jack Harkaway’s Pluck
  16--Jack Harkaway in Australia
  17--Jack Harkaway and the Bushrangers
  18--Jack Harkaway’s Duel
  19--Jack Harkaway and the Turks
  20--Jack Harkaway in New York
  21--Jack Harkaway Out West
  22--Jack Harkaway Among the Indians
  23--Jack Harkaway’s Cadet Days
  24--Jack Harkaway in the Black Hills
  25--Jack Harkaway in the Toils
  26--Jack Harkaway’s Secret of Wealth
  27--Jack Harkaway, Missing
  28--Jack Harkaway and the Sacred Serpent
  29--The Fool of the Family
  30--Mischievous Matt
  31--Mischievous Matt’s Pranks
  32--Bob Fairplay Adrift
  33--Bob Fairplay at Sea
  34--The Boys of St. Aldates
  35--Billy Barlow
  36--Larry O’Keefe
  37--Sam Sawbones
  38--Too Fast to Last
  39--Home Base
  40--Spider and Stump
  41--Out for Fun
  42--Rob Rollalong, Sailor
  43--Rob Rollalong in the Wilds
  44--Phil, the Showman           By Stanley Norris
  45--Phil’s Rivals               By Stanley Norris
  46--Phil’s Pluck                By Stanley Norris
  47--Phil’s Triumph              By Stanley Norris
  48--From Circus to Fortune      By Stanley Norris
  49--A Gentleman Born            By Stanley Norris
  50--For His Friend’s Honor      By Stanley Norris




The Dealer

who handles the STREET & SMITH NOVELS is a man worth patronizing. The
fact that he does handle our books proves that he has considered the
merits of paper-covered lines, and has decided that the STREET & SMITH
NOVELS are superior to all others.

He has looked into the question of the morality of the paper-covered
book, for instance, and feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one
of our novels to any one, because he has our assurance that nothing
except clean, wholesome literature finds its way into our lines.

Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise
tradesman, and it is fair to assume selects the other articles he
has for sale with the same degree of intelligence as he does his
paper-covered books.

Deal with the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer.

  STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
  79 Seventh Avenue  New York City




BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will
attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of
two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with
the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and
athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be
of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a
good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous,
right-thinking man.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

  1--Frank Merriwell’s School Days
  2--Frank Merriwell’s Chums
  3--Frank Merriwell’s Foes
  4--Frank Merriwell’s Trip West
  5--Frank Merriwell Down South
  6--Frank Merriwell’s Bravery
  7--Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour
  8--Frank Merriwell in Europe
  9--Frank Merriwell at Yale
  10--Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield
  11--Frank Merriwell’s Races
  12--Frank Merriwell’s Party
  13--Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour
  14--Frank Merriwell’s Courage
  15--Frank Merriwell’s Daring
  16--Frank Merriwell’s Alarm
  17--Frank Merriwell’s Athletes
  18--Frank Merriwell’s Skill
  19--Frank Merriwell’s Champions
  20--Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale
  21--Frank Merriwell’s Secret
  22--Frank Merriwell’s Danger
  23--Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty
  24--Frank Merriwell in Camp
  25--Frank Merriwell’s Vacation
  26--Frank Merriwell’s Cruise
  27--Frank Merriwell’s Chase
  28--Frank Merriwell in Maine
  29--Frank Merriwell’s Struggle
  30--Frank Merriwell’s First Job
  31--Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity
  32--Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck
  33--Frank Merriwell’s Protégé
  34--Frank Merriwell on the Road
  35--Frank Merriwell’s Own Company
  36--Frank Merriwell’s Fame
  37--Frank Merriwell’s College Chums
  38--Frank Merriwell’s Problem
  39--Frank Merriwell’s Fortune
  40--Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian
  41--Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity
  42--Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit
  43--Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme
  44--Frank Merriwell in England
  45--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards
  46--Frank Merriwell’s Duel
  47--Frank Merriwell’s Double Shot
  48--Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories
  49--Frank Merriwell’s Confidence
  50--Frank Merriwell’s Auto
  51--Frank Merriwell’s Fun
  52--Frank Merriwell’s Generosity
  53--Frank Merriwell’s Tricks
  54--Frank Merriwell’s Temptation
  55--Frank Merriwell on Top
  56--Frank Merriwell’s Luck
  57--Frank Merriwell’s Mascot
  58--Frank Merriwell’s Reward
  59--Frank Merriwell’s Phantom
  60--Frank Merriwell’s Faith
  61--Frank Merriwell’s Victories
  62--Frank Merriwell’s Iron Nerve
  63--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky
  64--Frank Merriwell’s Power
  65--Frank Merriwell’s Shrewdness
  66--Frank Merriwell’s Setback
  67--Frank Merriwell’s Search
  68--Frank Merriwell’s Club
  69--Frank Merriwell’s Trust
  70--Frank Merriwell’s False Friend
  71--Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm
  72--Frank Merriwell as Coach
  73--Frank Merriwell’s Brother
  74--Frank Merriwell’s Marvel
  75--Frank Merriwell’s Support
  76--Dick Merriwell at Fardale
  77--Dick Merriwell’s Glory
  78--Dick Merriwell’s Promise
  79--Dick Merriwell’s Rescue
  80--Dick Merriwell’s Narrow Escape
  81--Dick Merriwell’s Racket
  82--Dick Merriwell’s Revenge
  83--Dick Merriwell’s Ruse
  84--Dick Merriwell’s Delivery
  85--Dick Merriwell’s Wonders
  86--Frank Merriwell’s Honor
  87--Dick Merriwell’s Diamond
  88--Frank Merriwell’s Winners
  89--Dick Merriwell’s Dash
  90--Dick Merriwell’s Ability
  91--Dick Merriwell’s Trap
  92--Dick Merriwell’s Defense
  93--Dick Merriwell’s Model
  94--Dick Merriwell’s Mystery
  95--Frank Merriwell’s Backers
  96--Dick Merriwell’s Backstop
  97--Dick Merriwell’s Western Mission
  98--Frank Merriwell’s Rescue
  99--Frank Merriwell’s Encounter
  100--Dick Merriwell’s Marked Money
  101--Frank Merriwell’s Nomads
  102--Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron
  103--Dick Merriwell’s Disguise
  104--Dick Merriwell’s Test
  105--Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card
  106--Frank Merriwell’s Strategy
  107--Frank Merriwell’s Triumph
  108--Dick Merriwell’s Grit
  109--Dick Merriwell’s Assurance
  110--Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide
  111--Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal
  112--Dick Merriwell’s Threat
  113--Dick Merriwell’s Persistence
  114--Dick Merriwell’s Day
  115--Frank Merriwell’s Peril
  116--Dick Merriwell’s Downfall
  117--Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit
  118--Dick Merriwell Abroad
  119--Frank Merriwell in the Rockies
  120--Dick Merriwell’s Pranks
  121--Frank Merriwell’s Pride
  122--Frank Merriwell’s Challengers
  123--Frank Merriwell’s Endurance
  124--Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness
  125--Frank Merriwell’s Marriage
  126--Dick Merriwell, the Wizard
  127--Dick Merriwell’s Stroke
  128--Dick Merriwell’s Return
  129--Dick Merriwell’s Resource
  130--Dick Merriwell’s Five
  131--Frank Merriwell’s Tigers
  132--Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team
  133--Frank Merriwell’s Pupils
  134--Frank Merriwell’s New Boy
  135--Dick Merriwell’s Home Run
  136--Dick Merriwell’s Dare
  137--Frank Merriwell’s Son
  138--Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate
  139--Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers
  140--Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp
  141--Dick Merriwell’s Influence
  142--Dick Merriwell, Freshman
  143--Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power
  144--Dick Merriwell’s Joke
  145--Frank Merriwell’s Talisman
  146--Frank Merriwell’s Horse
  147--Dick Merriwell’s Regret
  148--Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism
  149--Dick Merriwell’s Backers
  150--Dick Merriwell’s Best Work
  151--Dick Merriwell’s Distrust
  152--Dick Merriwell’s Debt
  153--Dick Merriwell’s Mastery
  154--Dick Merriwell Adrift
  155--Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy
  156--Dick Merriwell’s Close Call
  157--Frank Merriwell’s Air Voyage
  158--Dick Merriwell’s Black Star
  159--Frank Merriwell in Wall Street
  160--Frank Merriwell Facing His Foes
  161--Dick Merriwell’s Stanchness
  162--Frank Merriwell’s Hard Case
  163--Dick Merriwell’s Stand
  164--Dick Merriwell Doubted
  165--Frank Merriwell’s Steadying Hand
  166--Dick Merriwell’s Example
  167--Dick Merriwell in the Wilds
  168--Frank Merriwell’s Ranch
  169--Dick Merriwell’s Way
  170--Frank Merriwell’s Lesson
  171--Dick Merriwell’s Reputation
  172--Frank Merriwell’s Encouragement
  173--Dick Merriwell’s Honors
  174--Frank Merriwell’s Wizard
  175--Dick Merriwell’s Race
  176--Dick Merriwell’s Star Play
  177--Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake
  178--Dick Merriwell a Winner
  179--Dick Merriwell at the County Fair
  180--Frank Merriwell’s Grit
  181--Dick Merriwell’s Power
  182--Frank Merriwell in Peru

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

  To be published in January, 1928.
    183--Frank Merriwell’s Long Chance
    184--Frank Merriwell’s Old Form

  To be published in February, 1928.
    185--Frank Merriwell’s Treasure Hunt
    186--Dick Merriwell Game to the Last

  To be published in March, 1928.
    187--Dick Merriwell, Motor King
    188--Dick Merriwell’s Tussle
    189--Dick Merriwell’s Aëro Dash

  To be published in April, 1928.
    190--Dick Merriwell’s Intuition
    191--Dick Merriwell’s Placer Find

  To be published in May, 1928.
    192--Dick Merriwell’s Fighting Chance
    193--Frank Merriwell’s Tact

  To be published in June, 1928.
    194--Frank Merriwell’s Puzzle
    195--Frank Merriwell’s Mystery




RATTLING GOOD ADVENTURE

SPORT STORIES

_Stories of the Big Outdoors_

There has been a big demand for outdoor stories, and a very
considerable portion of it has been for the Maxwell Stevens stories
about Jack Lightfoot, the athlete.

These stories are not, strictly speaking, stories for boys, but boys
everywhere will find a great deal in them to interest them.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

   1--Jack Lightfoot, the Athlete
   2--Jack Lightfoot’s Crack Nine
   3--Jack Lightfoot Trapped
   4--Jack Lightfoot’s Rival
   5--Jack Lightfoot in Camp
   6--Jack Lightfoot’s Canoe Trip
   7--Jack Lightfoot’s Iron Arm
   8--Jack Lightfoot’s Hoodoo
   9--Jack Lightfoot’s Decision
  10--Jack Lightfoot’s Gun Club
  11--Jack Lightfoot’s Blind
  12--Jack Lightfoot’s Capture
  13--Jack Lightfoot’s Head Work
  14--Jack Lightfoot’s Wisdom




_TALES OF THE ROLLING PLAINS_

Great Western Library

By COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM and W. B. LAWSON

Thrilling Adventure

For many years we have been urged by readers who like Western stories
to publish some tales about the adventures of Diamond Dick. Therefore,
we decided to have a new series of stories based upon the adventures of
this famous Western character, and to put them in a line called GREAT
WESTERN LIBRARY, together with stories about Buffalo Bill, by Col.
Prentiss Ingraham.

Thus, in this line two of the most famous of all American characters
join hands. The so-called society stories with a kick in them come
and go, but these clean, wholesome tales of the West give a clean-cut
picture of the lives and characters of the men who carried the advance
banners of civilization westward.

There are Indian stories, cowboy stories, outlaw stories, all sorts of
stories of adventures out West. Each one is clean and decent, even if
it is thrilling.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

   1--Diamond Dick’s Own Brand                     By W. B. Lawson
   2--Buffalo Bill’s Honor               By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
   3--Diamond Dick’s Maverick                      By W. B. Lawson
   4--Buffalo Bill’s Phantom Hunt        By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
   5--Diamond Dick’s Man Hunt                      By W. B. Lawson
   6--Buffalo Bill’s Fight with Fire     By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
   7--Diamond Dick’s Danger Signal                 By W. B. Lawson
   8--Buffalo Bill’s Danite Trail        By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
   9--Diamond Dick’s Prospect                      By W. B. Lawson
  10--Buffalo Bill’s Ranch Riders        By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  11--Diamond Dick and the Gold Bugs               By W. B. Lawson
  12--Buffalo Bill’s Death Trail         By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  13--Diamond Dick at Comet City                   By W. B. Lawson
  14--Buffalo Bill’s Trackers            By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  15--Diamond Dick and the Worthless Bonanza       By W. B. Lawson
  16--Buffalo Bill’s Mid-air Flight      By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  17--Diamond Dick’s Black List                    By W. B. Lawson
  18--Buffalo Bill, Ambassador           By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  19--Diamond Dick and the Indian Outlaw           By W. B. Lawson
  20--Buffalo Bill’s Air Voyage          By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  21--Diamond Dick and Gentleman Jack              By W. B. Lawson
  22--Buffalo Bill’s Secret Mission      By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  23--Diamond Dick at Secret Pass                  By W. B. Lawson
  24--Buffalo Bill’s Long Trail          By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
  25--Diamond Dick’s Red Trailer                   By W. B. Lawson
  26--Buffalo Bill Against Odds          By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

  To be published in January, 1928.
    27--Buffalo Bill’s Bid for Fame      By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
    28--Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza           By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

  To be published in February, 1928.
    29--Buffalo Bill’s Swoop             By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
    30--Buffalo Bill and the Gold King   By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

  To be published in March, 1928.
    31--Buffalo Bill’s Still Hunt        By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
    32--Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Guide     By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

  To be published in April, 1928.
    33--Buffalo Bill and the Doomed      By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
           Dozen
    34--Buffalo Bill’s Border Duel       By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

  To be published in May, 1928.
    35--Buffalo Bill’s Triumph           By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
    36--Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard        By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
    37--Buffalo Bill’s Prairie Scout     By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

  To be published in June, 1928.
    38--Buffalo Bill’s Death Call        By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
    39--Buffalo Bill’s Double Surprise   By Col. Prentiss Ingraham




Transcriber’s Note:

The Contents was added by the transcriber.

Punctuation and hyphenation have been standardised. Brand names “Vichy”
and “Prestolite” have been presented without initial capitals as they
appear in the original publication. Spelling anomalies retained include
“onery”, “varmit” and “cuticule”, otherwise spelling has been retained
as published except as follows:

  Page 5
    streak of red admist a swirling cloud _changed to_
    streak of red amidst a swirling cloud

  Page 6
    scarcely any preceptible slackening _changed to_
    scarcely any perceptible slackening

  Page 9
    heard the insistant ringing _changed to_
    heard the insistent ringing

  Page 11
    in that dierction _changed to_
    in that direction

  Page 15
    Stovebridge returned nonchanlantly _changed to_
    Stovebridge returned nonchalantly

  Page 17
    haberdasher at Witlon _changed to_
    haberdasher at Wilton

  Page 20
    hesitated for an intsant _changed to_
    hesitated for an instant

  Page 23
    malignent glare of hate _changed to_
    malignant glare of hate

    with facinated horror _changed to_
    with fascinated horror

  Page 25
    were bowling allies, billiard _changed to_
    were bowling alleys, billiard

  Page 26
    left here there _changed to_
    left her there

  Page 32
    part of a converastion _changed to_
    part of a conversation

  Page 33
    it’s celar as day _changed to_
    it’s clear as day

    who’s car did _changed to_
    whose car did

  Page 36
    in a preoccupied manned _changed to_
    in a preoccupied manner

  Page 45
    Jim Hanlon glairng at him _changed to_
    Jim Hanlon glaring at him

    imperceptible this lead increased _changed to_
    imperceptibly this lead increased

  Page 50
    the other’s facinated _changed to_
    the other’s fascinated

  Page 56
    save his overweaning desire _changed to_
    save his overweening desire

  Page 57
    to soak in the jaw _changed to_
    to sock in the jaw

    your going to settle down _changed to_
    you’re going to settle down

  Page 59
    in the pitchy darkness _changed to_
    in the pitch darkness

    abandoend his search _changed to_
    abandoned his search

  Page 69
    great fear, as he he _changed to_
    great fear, as he

  Page 71
    supplimented Niles fiercely _changed to_
    supplemented Niles fiercely

  Page 76
    supplimented Niles _changed to_
    supplemented Niles

    utter desolation and dispair _changed to_
    utter desolation and despair

  Page 79
    Summing all his resolution _changed to_
    Summoning all his resolution

  Page 95
    with supressed anger _changed to_
    with suppressed anger

  Page 96
    came sizzing over the _changed to_
    came sizzling over the

    a little grimance of _changed to_
    a little grimace of

  Page 97
    toward the culbhouse _changed to_
    toward the clubhouse

  Page 100
    Say’s there is no game _changed to_
    Says there is no game

  Page 104
    Take you hands _changed to_
    Take your hands

  Page 106
    IN DOLAN’S CAFE _changed to_
    IN DOLAN’S CAFÉ

  Page 107
    But to the cheap sport of Forrest Hills _changed to_
    But to the cheap sport of Forest Hills

  Page 113
    you’re pretty corky _changed to_
    you’re pretty cocky

  Page 117
    to think out their itineray _changed to_
    to think out their itinerary

  Page 120
    stepped into the elvator _changed to_
    stepped into the elevator

  Page 135
    aroung the diamond _changed to_
    around the diamond

  Page 143
    shook his head in dispair _changed to_
    shook his head in despair

  Page 145
    inperceptible flash _changed to_
    imperceptible flash

  Page 161
    My dear Mr. Spreckels _changed to_
    My dear Mr. Spreckles

  Page 165
    a good New Engalnd family _changed to_
    a good New England family

  Page 171
    keenly on Marcus Myer _changed to_
    keenly on Marcus Meyer

  Page 185
    Beat it! Vamose! _changed to_
    Beat it! Vamoose!

  Page 190
    with its rugs and and pictures _changed to_
    with its rugs and pictures

  Page 202
    no sound of footstps _changed to_
    no sound of footsteps

  Page 204
    the man was uisng _changed to_
    the man was using

  Page 216
    flying it’s alway necessary _changed to_
    flying it’s always necessary

  Page 225
    effort an almost irresistibel _changed to_
    effort an almost irresistible

  Page 228
    ceased its revoluntions _changed to_
    ceased its revolutions

  Page 231
    turned and loooked about _changed to_
    turned and looked about

  Page 238
    proceeded to make monkies of _changed to_
    proceeded to make monkeys of

    game, wining at will _changed to_
    game, winning at will

  Page 269
    crummed tobacco jammed _changed to_
    crumbed tobacco jammed

  Page 273
    find acommodations here _changed to_
    find accommodations here

  Page 274
    glad she was that Chested _changed to_
    glad she was that Chester

  Page 283
    muttered Warwoop _changed to_
    muttered Warwhoop

  Page 293
    was given a thump on the bungle _changed to_
    was given a thump on the bugle

  Page 301
    shrill warwooop that came _changed to_
    shrill warwhoop that came

  Page v of the book lists at the end of the book does not
    have a listing for 1139

  Page x of the book lists at the end of the book
    Kidnaped By Robert Louis Stevenson _changed to_
    Kidnapped By Robert Louis Stevenson