Book: Frank Merriwell, Junior\'s, Golden Trail
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Burt L. Standish >> Frank Merriwell, Junior\'s, Golden Trail
New Tip Top Weekly
No. 11; October 12, 1912.
FRANK MERRIWELL, JUNIOR's, GOLDEN TRAIL; Or, THE FUGITIVE PROFESSOR.
By BURT L. STANDISH.
CHAPTER I.
DREAMS AND OMENS.
"Look here, you fellows," cried Ballard, "if I don't get this out of my
system I'm going to explode. It will only take a minute or two, and--"
"Go on and explode," cut in Clancy unfeelingly. "Can't you see that Chip
and I are busy?"
"But this dream was a corker, Red, and I--"
"For the love of Mike, Pink, I wish you'd _cork_. Wait till the work out
there is wound up and then you can--wow! How was that for a tackle,
Chip?"
Three separate and distinct times, there in the grand stand, Billy
Ballard had tried to tell his chums, young Frank Merriwell and Owen
Clancy, of a dream he had the night before. It seemed to have occurred
to suddenly, for the forenoon and part of the afternoon had slipped away
without any attempt on Ballard's part to rehearse the fancies that had
afflicted him in his sleep. But now he was feverishly eager, and the
rebuffs he took from the annoyed Clancy only exasperated him.
It was hardly an opportune moment, however, to talk dreams and omens.
Merry was wrapped up in a practice game of football, and was alternately
scrutinizing players and hastily jotting down notes with a pencil.
Clancy was not making any memoranda, but snappy work on the gridiron was
claiming his full attention. With a sigh of resignation, Ballard bottled
up his remarks and sat back on the hard boards.
Only Merry and his two chums were in the grand stand. The practice game
was between the regular Ophir Athletic Club eleven and a scrub team. It
had been put on for Frank's exclusive benefit.
For two straight years the O. A. C. had gone down to inglorious defeat
before their rivals from Gold Hill--thirty-six to nothing on last
Thanksgiving Day--and the sting of those defeats had made Ophir
pessimistic and their eleven a joke. Another Thanksgiving Day was less
than two months ahead, and the Ophir fellows were turning to Merriwell
for help. They felt that if any one could pick an eleven from the club
members and round them, into winning form, it was he, and he alone.
This was not the first practice game staged for Merriwell. The first one
had degenerated into a farce, for the spirit of fun had taken untimely
grip of the players and a promising exhibition had gone to pieces on a
reef of horseplay. Spink and Handy, for the club, had waited upon Merry
and tendered apologies, and a second game had been arranged.
Circumstances over which Merry had had little control had kept him away
from that second game; and now, four days later, the Ophir eleven were
gallantly retrieving themselves.
The two teams had ranged themselves across the field, and a scrub foot
had booted the oval well down toward the regulars' goal. A nervous full
back waited to receive that opening kick, while his teammates rushed at
him to form their flying screen of interference. The ball evaded the
arms that reached for it, while another back fell on it and kept it
clear of the clutches of a scrub end.
Frank scrawled a note on the paper that lay on his knee. "That's
Leversee," he remarked, "but I think he'll steady down."
"That scrub end is faster than a streak of greased lightning, Chip,"
commented the admiring Clancy. "Good material, what?"
Presently came the first scrimmage, and a regular half back, all beef
and brawn, went down in a flurry. The scrub defense was like a stone
wall. It was the second down and four yards to gain. The regular
interferers dashed to get around one end of the line, but were flung to
right and left, and the runner, dropped more than a yard short of the
required distance.
The regular full back retreated for a punt. Fast and far the ball sailed
into the scrub field, which proved that the back's feet were not
nervous, no matter if his hands and arms had been a trifle unsteady.
"Bully!" muttered Frank, and scrawled another notation.
The scrubs, going up against the regulars' defense, found it impossible
to make any decisive gains. Vigor and rocklike endurance marked the
clashes, and both regulars and scrubs had to punt and punt again. Fake
plays were riddled by swift and sagacious end rushes, for one side or
the other, hurling attacks against the center were crushed and flung
back; and, more and more as the battle raged, it became evident that the
regular eleven, while good, were no whit better than the scrubs.
The fight in the first half was carried into the last minute of the
play. The whistle separated the combatants, and neither side had scored.
During the interval that followed Ballard sought to tell his dream,
Merriwell and Clancy, however, were in close and earnest conversation
regarding the players and had no time for anything not connected with
the game.
"With material like that to choose from, Chip," said Clancy, "it ought
not to be much of a trick to select an eleven that would put it all over
Gold Hill."
"From all I can hear, Clan," Merry answered, "the Gold Hill bunch is a
fast one. I don't know what we can do. The Ophirites are liable to hit,
their funny bone in the last half and turn the performance into a farce
comedy."
"Never again, Chip. Once was enough."
"What happens once is always liable to happen again," Frank answered,
"although I'm hoping for the best."
His fears were not realized. The last half of the game, although faulty
in spots, was, on the whole a creditable performance. Merriwell was more
than pleased. When Spink and Handy, dusty and breathless, halted on
their way to the showers and the dressing rooms to ask his opinion,
Merry gave them the praise that was their due.
"We can make up an eleven here that ought to do things to Gold Hill,
fellows," said he.
"They say that Gold Hill is so sure of getting our scalps for the third
time," said Spink, "that they haven't begun their fall work."
"Which makes everything look all the brighter for Ophir," laughed Frank.
"Too much confidence is worse than not enough. You seem to think that I
can help you, although I--"
"It's a cinch you can help us!" broke in Handy. "Wasn't your father the
star coach at Yale?"
A slight frown crossed Frank's face.
"Don't try to pin any of dad's medals on me, Handy," said Frank. "I
didn't inherit any of his couching ability. Dad gave me a good, clean
bringing-up. Ever since I've been old enough to waddle, he has made me
stand on my own feet. If you fellows are bound that I can help you, I'll
give some suggestions and do my best. I'll get the suggestions in shape
and give them to you in a day or so."
The regulars and scrubs, who had grouped themselves at a little distance
behind Spink and Handy, gave a delighted cheer. Frank, putting away his
pencil and paper, smiled as he watched them trot away toward the gym.
"Now," said Ballard, with a show of injured dignity, "I wonder if you
fellows can spare a little of your valuable time?"
"What's biting you, Pink?" inquired Frank.
"It's a dream," said Clancy derisively. "Pink has been seeing things at
night, and he has been boiling over to tell us about it ever since this
practice game started. Why don't you get a dream book, you crazy,
chump," he added to Ballard, "and figure the visions out for yourself?"
"Or a joke book," said Frank. "You can do about as much figuring from
that as from anything else."
"Oh, blazes!" exclaimed Ballard. "Don't make light of this dream. I just
happened to remember, since we reached this grand stand, that I've had
it three nights in succession. When a dream comes to you three times
like that it's supposed to mean something."
"Sure," agreed Clancy, wagging his head; "it means that for three nights
you have--er--eaten not wisely but too well. How's that, Chip? Pretty
good, eh?" He straightened up, looked grave, and went on to Ballard;
"Dreams, William, are the result of tantrums in the tummy. You load up a
suffering organ with grub that's so rich it affects the imagination;
consequently, when the razmataz, in a state of coma, projects itself
into the _medulla oblongata_--"
Ballard, yelling wildly, made a jump for Clancy. Merry, however, had
already taken hint in hand.
"That sounds too much like Professor Phineas Borredaile," said Frank.
"Call off the dog, Clan;" and he smothered his red-headed chum and
pushed him down on the hard boards.
"I'll be good, Chip," murmured Clancy, in a stilted voice. "Take your
hands, off my face and let me breathe."
Frank released him with a laugh, and Clancy smoothed himself out.
"I was only expounding," explained the red-headed chap, "and now that
the prof isn't around to do it, a substitute has to take hold."
"Pink isn't the only one who has taken a foolish powder," said Merry.
"And, talking about Phineas, what do you suppose the old fossil is up
to?" Clancy went on, just a shade of anxiety sifting into his tones.
"It's four days now, since he suddenly made up his mind to go over Gold
Hill. What did he go for? And why is he staying away? We haven't heard a
word from him since he left."
Merriwell looked serious.
"All that has been bothering me, Clan," he acknowledged "Since we found
the prof in that deserted, mining camp, and helped him file a location
on that mining claim, we're responsible for him, in a way. He need,
looking after, and we have't been on the job at all."
"After you disappeared mysteriously the other night," remarked Clancy,
"Mr. Bradlaugh had an idea that you had gone over to Gold Hill to see
the prof. Mr. Bradlaugh called up the Bristow Hotel, at the Hill, and
talked with Borrodaile. He said he hadn't seen you, on--"
"I know about that," Merry interrupted. "That was four days ago, and we
haven't seen Borrodaile nor had a word from him since. Honest, fellows,
I'm getting worried. Before we started out here this afternoon I asked
Mr. Bradlaugh to try and get the prof on the phone, and to ask him when
he intended coming back to Ophir. Until I hear from dad, in answer to
that letter I sent the night I was taken out to the Bar Z Ranch, I won't
know what we're expected to do with the prof. Meanwhile, we've got to
keep an eye on him. He's the sole owner of a rich mining claim, and he's
about as capable of looking after his interests as a blanket Indian."
"That's right," assented Clancy. "Borrodaile can tell you all about the
Jurassic Period, and can give you the complete history of the
Neanderthal man from A to Izizard, but I'll guarantee to sell him a gold
brick in five minutes. As for business--well, he doesn't know any more
about ordinary, everyday business than a--er--troglodyte, whatever that
is."
"My dream was about the professor," struck in Ballard.
Merry and Clancy turned at that and gave their chum some attention.
"Come over with it, Pink," said Frank. "There's nothing in the dream, of
course, but the fact that the professor figured in it proves you were
fretting a little on his account yourself."
"Well, it was like this," returned Ballard, glad that the opportunity
had finally come to relieve his mind. "I seemed to be back in that pile
of ruins that used to be Happenchance, the played-out mining camp. From
that claim of the professor's stretched a row of nuggets, clear from the
Picket Post Mountains to Gold Hill. They were big nuggets, too, running
all the way from one the size of my hat to a whole lot as big as a
washtub--"
"Whew!" grinned Clancy. "Go on, Pink; don't mind me."
"The nuggets," proceeded Ballard, frowning at Clancy, "were arranged
like stepping-stones--one here, another a few feet beyond, and another
beyond that, and so on."
"Regular golden trail," laughed Clancy. "That was some dream, Pink."
"The professor," resumed Ballard, "was running along the trail, hat off,
his bald head glimmering in the sun, and the tails of his long coat
flying out behind. Three or four nuggets behind him, running after him
as fast as they could go, were several hard-looking citizens. That's
about all. For three times, now, I've seen the prof chased over that
golden trail by desperadoes. I've never be able to see how the chase
came out, for always, just at the critical moment, I'd wake up. What do
you think of it?"
Before Frank could answer, some one appeared in the clubhouse door,
across the athletic field from the grand stand, and trumpeted
Merriwell's name through his hands.
"Hello!" answered Frank, getting up and shouting.
"Mr. Bradlaugh wants you on the phone," came the answer.
Without delaying, Frank leaped the rail in front of him and sprinted for
the clubhouse. Ballard and Clancy followed, but at a more leisurely
pace.
"That dream of yours, Pink," averred Clancy, on the way across the
field, "was a 'happenchance'--like the old, played-out town we found in
the Picket Posts."
Ballard merely grunted. It was plain that he had his own ideas on the
subject of that dream.
On reaching the clubhouse the two lads found Merry just coming away from
the telephone. His face was clouded, and there was an anxious light in
his eyes.
"What's wrong, Chip?" inquired Clancy.
"Borrodaile isn't in Gold Hill," was the answer. "He left the Bristow
Hotel three days ago, and hasn't been seen since."
CHAPTER II.
THE TELEGRAM FROM BLOOMFIELD.
Professor Phineas Borrodaile had for years been an instructor in an
academy in the middle West. His health failing, he was ordered to
Arizona. The dry, invigorating climate had worked wonders in thousands
of cases similar to the professor's, and there was every reason to
believe that the professor would be greatly benefited, if not entirely
cured of his malady.
At the last moment before starting Borrodaile had happened to think of
an old letter from a nephew of his who had been engaged in the mining
business in a camp called Happenchance, in southern Arizona. The
professor looked up the letter. The writer of it had died years before,
and the camp of Happenchance had had its day and was now deserted and
lost among the Picket Post Mountains. What made the letter of especial
interest to the professor was the fact that it gave the location of a
ledge of gold, not far from the old Happenchance placerings.
A bee began buzzing in the professor's bonnet. It was this: He would get
out of the world; in the old, lost camp he would recover his health by
living the primitive life. Also, being next of kin to his late nephew,
he would find and possess himself of the ledge of gold.
Some months after Professor Borrodaile had put his plan into execution,
young Merriwell received a letter from his father, in Bloomfield, rather
mysteriously requesting him to pay a visit to the lost town of the
Picket Posts and to report at length upon anything he might find in the
only habitable building of the camp. Aided by a prospector named Nick
Porter, Frank and his chums visited Happenchance and there found the
professor. They had adventures in helping the professor get his location
notice on file, and only Merry's fleetness of foot and good judgment
saved a prospective bonanza mine for Borrodaile.
Very strangely the professor had left Ophir for Gold Hill not many hours
after he had come with Frank and his friends from Gold Hill to Ophir.
The youngsters were not his guardians, however, and did not feel
authorized to interfere too much in his affairs. Merry thought it best
to go slow in the matter until a reply had been received to the report
which he had sent to his father. Six days or a week would be required in
forwarding a letter to Bloomfield and receiving a letter in reply.
Meanwhile four days had elapsed, and Borrodaile had dropped completely
out of sight.
Knowing the professor to be inexperienced in business affairs, Merriwell
had begun to worry about him. There were unscrupulous men in plenty who
would not hesitate to take advantage of him with the idea of securing
his very valuable mining claim. The telephone message from Mr.
Bradlaugh, therefore, was quite disturbing.
"Ah, ha!" exclaimed Ballard, when Merriwell reported the professor
missing from Gold Hill, "so you think there's nothing in that dream of
mine, eh? This news from Gold Hill shows that it amounts to something."
"What the mischief do you think is going on, Chip?" asked Clancy.
"I'm up in the air and haven't an idea," replied Frank.
"Mr. Bradlaugh asked me to come over to his office in town for a
conference."
"We'll have to hit the golden trail," declared Ballard, "and run it out
to a finish. We've got to be mighty quick about it, too, or there's no
telling what will happen to the old prof."
"Show us your nuggets as big as washtubs, Pink," grinned Clancy, "and
I'm willing to begin to sprint."
"The dream was only a warning. It didn't suggest what we were to do, or
how we're to go about it, but just gives us a hunch that Borrodaile
needs help."
"That's the trouble with dreams--there's too much guesswork about 'em.
If you have one, and something happens that seems to tally with it, why,
you're apt to take it for granted that you had a hunch. I'll bet you've
had thousands of dreams about things that never happened, and yet here
you're picking out one that appears to jibe with the prof's absence from
Gold hill, and trying to make us think it's a warning. Stuff!"
"You're too free with your snap judgments, Red," said Ballard solemnly,
"but wait a while and you'll change your tune."
Merriwell was already on his way out of the clubhouse, Clancy and
Ballard gave up their discussion and hurried after him. The clubhouse
and athletic field were less than a mile from the town of Ophir, and the
three friends were soon jogging along through the sand on their way to
Mr. Bradlaugh's office.
Bradlaugh was president of the O. A. C., and Western representative of
the syndicate that owned the big mine and stamp mill to the south of
town. It was the mine that had made the straggling settlement of Ophir a
possibility.
"It will be at least two days more before I can hear from dad," Merry
remarked, just as they struck into the main street of the "camp," "and
before we interfere too much with the professor I think we ought to
learn from headquarters just how far we ought to go."
"Oh, bother that!" exclaimed Clancy. "If the old boy's in danger, Chip,
we can't hang back waiting to hear from Bloomfield."
"Sure we can't. We're making a guess, though, when we figure that he is
in any sort of trouble. Just because he can't be located is no sign he's
shooting the trouble chutes."
"Yes, it is!" averred Ballard stoutly. "That dream I--"
"Oh, cut out the dreams and forebodings, Pink," broke in Frank, "We're
dealing with facts now and not with a lot of bunk superstitions."
That dream had become Ballard's hobby, and he was in a fair way of
riding it to death. Although he was easy going, and rather lazy when
circumstances gave him the chance to be, yet he straightened suddenly at
Frank's sharp fling at his delusion, and was on the point of flashing a
keen retort. Before he could speak, however, Frank had turned in at
Bradlaugh's office.
Mr. Bradlaugh sat at his desk, smoking a cigar. He welcomed the lads
cordially and waved them to chair.
"What do you think about Borrodaile, Frank?" he asked, coming right down
to the main subject.
"I think," was the prompt answer, "that he has a head that's stuffed
with knowledge--but it's not the sort of knowledge that will help him
hang on to that bonanza mining claim of his."
"My motion to a t, y, ty. He can go back to Caesar's time and tell you
how the old Romans used to do business, but he's as innocent as a babe
in arms about the way business is done in this day and age of the world.
He needs looking after, or some one will get that claim of his for a
song--and then forget the singing part. Have you any idea why he went
back to Gold Hill after he had just come from there."
"No, sir. That was the night"--and a flicker of a smile crossed Merry's
face--"when I went out to the Bar Z Ranch, and before I had left I
didn't know he had gone."
"Hum!" Mr. Bradlaugh sat back in his chair and peered into the vapor
that floated above his head. "Boys," said he, when he finally lowered
his eyes, "I have a feeling that some one is trying to victimize this
professor of yours; in other words, that evil forces are at work to
swindle him out of his claim, or, perhaps, to get it in some way even
more desperate. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but it's the
part of wisdom to consider this matter in the worst light possible, and
then to go to work alon g that line. If we're mistaken in our
conclusions, well and good. Better that, you know, than to think nothing
is wrong, to let matters drift, and then to find that the professor has
been swindled or"--he hesitated--"or that he has disappeared, never to
return."
All three of the boys at that gave a jump of consternation.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Clancy, "you don't have any idea that the
harmless old fossil has been put out of the way?"
"No," was the reply; "and yet there are people who would put him out of
the way, if, by so doing, they could show up with a quitclaim deed to
that wonderfully rich gold mine. If the professor were gone for good,
you see, no one would appear to question the validity of the legal
document. Such things have been done. I mention it in this case merely
as a possibility. Then, again, we have to consider it as a case of mere
swindling The professor, I think, could easily he victimized. My most
hopeful view is this: that Borradaile has simply gone off somewhere,
without any plotters tagging to his heel, and that he will present
himself in due course with the claim still in his possession. It is
best, though, to put the worst construction on his absence; then, if my
last theory proves correct, we shall all be happily disappointed."
Frank drew a deep breath.
"I haven't felt like butting into the prof's affairs too much," said he,
"until I hear from dad."
"I think you're amply warranted in going ahead and looking for him,"
said Bradlaugh.
"Sure. What would you do, Mr. Bradlaugh? Go over to Gold Hill and try to
pick up some clews there?"
"That might be advisable; just at present, however, I have another line
of investigation in mind. I don't suppose you have forgotten Nick
Porter, the old prospector who took you out to the deserted camp in the
Picket Posts?"
Clancy began to laugh.
"It's a cinch," said he, "that we'll never forget old Silent Porter and
his whisky bottle. I suppose he used the fifty dollars Chip paid him to
grubstake himself, and that he's now, in the deserts looking for a
mine?"
"That's what he wanted the fifty for," answered Bradlaugh, "but after he
got it he seems to have delayed going into the hills. Next day after you
lads got back from Happenchance, Porter went to Gold Hill. The spree he
had there on that fifty has been the talk of the town. He's a
disreputable old chap when in his cups, and I'm wondering if he knows
anything about Borrodaile's disappearance."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Merry. "I wouldn't put it past him any. He was with
us when we came back from Happenchance, and I remember now just how he
looked when he saw a sample of the wire-gold ore."
"He was ready to throw a fit," said Ballard, "because he had been all
through the Picket Post range and had never found any gold there. I'll
bet a farm you can nail this thing to Nick Porter."
"Don't be hasty about that," warned Bradlaugh. "It's only a theory, and
I believe every man ought to be considered as honest until he proves
himself otherwise. Porter is merely a subject for investigation, that's
all."
"Then," said Frank promptly, "we'll go over to Gold Hill this very night
and begin investigating him."
"You won't have to go to Gold Hill. I've heard from our super at the
mine that Porter returned here this afternoon, looking a good deal the
worse for wear. After supper you can visit the mine and have a talk with
the prospector. You'll know what angle to give your investigations,
Merriwell."
"But he may pull out for the hills while we're delaying here in town!"
"He'll have to get money for another grubstake before he goes any more
prospecting. Even if he has the money--which is hardly possible--the
super, on my orders, will delay him if he tries to leave."
Here was a sample of Mr. Bradlaugh's thoughtfulness which Merry deeply
appreciated.
"We'll be at the mine this evening, Mr. Bradlaugh," said he, "and if
Porter knows anything about the professor's absence, we'll do our best
to find out what it is."
"My car would be at your disposal, but just now it's in the repair
shop," went on Mr. Bradlaugh. "There are a couple of motor cycles at the
mine, though, if you find it necessary to go anywhere in a hurry. Pardo,
the super, will be glad to let you take the machines."
Frank thanked Mr. Bradlaugh for the offer, and started to leave.
"Just a moment," said the older man. "How did the boys shape up in the
practice game?"
"Fine!" Merriwell answered.
"I suppose after you have located the professor and extricated him from
any troubles he may have fallen into, you'll do your best to give us an
eleven that will make the Gold Hillers eat crow instead of turkey for
Thanksgiving?"