Frank Merriwell's Triumph Part 10

The sailor heaved a deep sigh.

"Don't," he sadly said, wiping his eye. "Talk to me of dreadful things--funerals, and deaths, and all that; but don't ever suggest to me that the day will dawn when little Walter will recognize the fact that he is a has-been. It fills my soul with such unutterable sadness that words fail me. However, ere that day appears I propose to daze and bewilder the staring world. Why, even with my wonderful record as a ball player, it was only last year that I failed to obtain a show on the measly little dried-up old New England League. I knew I was a hundred times better than the players given a show. I even confessed it to the managers of the different teams. Still, I didn't happen to have the proper pull, and they took on the cheap slobs who were chumps enough to play for nothing in order to get a chance to play at all.

"I knew my value, and I refused to play unless I could feel the coin of the realm tickling my palm. I rather think I opened the eyes of some of those d.i.n.ky old managers. But even though Selee, McGraw, and others of the big leagues have been imploring me on their knees to play with them, I have haughtily declined. What I really desire is to get into the New England League, where I will be a star of the first magnitude. I had much rather be a big toad in a little puddle than a medium-sized toad in a big puddle. The manager who signs me for his team in the New England League will draw a glittering prize. If I could have my old-time chum, Peckie Prescott, with me, we'd show those New England Leaguers some stunts that would curl their hair.

"Speaking of Peckie, Mr. Merriwell, reminds me that there is a boy lost to professional baseball who would be worth millions of dollars to any manager who got hold of him and gave him a show. Play ball! Why, Peckie was born to play ball! He just can't help it. He has an arm of iron, and he can throw from the plate to second base on a dead line and as quick as a bullet from a rifle. As a backstop he is a wizard. And when it comes to hitting--oh, la! la! he can average his two base hits a game off any pitcher in the New England League. To be sure, the boy is a little new and needs some coaching; but give him a show and he will be in the National or American inside of three seasons."

"Are you serious about this fellow, cap'n?" asked Frank. "I am aware that you know a real baseball player when you see him, but you have a little way of exaggerating that sometimes leads people to doubt your statements."

"Mr. Merriwell, I was never more serious in all my life. I give you my word that everything I have said of Prescott is true; but I fear, like some sweet, fragile wild-woods flower, he was born to blush unseen. I fear he will never get the show he deserves. While these dunkhead managers are scrabbling around over the country to rake up players, he remains in the modest seclusion of his home, and they fail to stumble on him. He is a retiring sort of chap, and this has prevented him from pus.h.i.+ng himself forward."

"You should be able to push him a little yourself, cap'n."

"What! When I am turned down by the blind and deluded managers, how am I to help another? Alas! 'tis impossible! Coffee is served, Mr. Merriwell.

Let's proceed to surround our breakfast and forget our misfortunes."

After breakfast Frank and Bart discussed the programme for the day. They decided to make an immediate and vigorous search for the lost mine. It was considered necessary, however, that one of the party should remain at the camp and guard their outfit. Neither Abe nor Worthington was suitable for this, and, as both Frank and Bart wished to take part in the search, Wiley seemed the only one left for the task.

"Very well," said the sailor, "I will remain. Leave me with a Winchester in my hands, and I will guarantee to protect things here with the last drop of my heroic blood."

In this manner it was settled. The sailor remained to guard the camp and the two pack horses, while the others mounted and rode away into the valley.

Late in the afternoon they returned, bringing with them a mountain goat which Merry had shot. As they came in sight of the spot where the tent had stood they were astonished to see that it was no longer there.

"Look, Frank!" cried Bart, pointing. "The tent is gone!"

"Sure enough," nodded Merriwell grimly. "It's not where we left it."

"What do you suppose has happened?"

"We will soon find out."

Not only had the tent and camping outfit disappeared, but the two pack horses were missing. Nor was Wiley to be found.

Hodge looked at Merry in blank inquiry.

"Where is this fellow we left to guard our property?" he finally exclaimed.

"You know as well as I," confessed Frank.

"As a guard over anything, he seems to be a failure."

"We can't tell what has happened to him."

"What has happened to him!" cried Bart. "Why, he has taken French leave, that's what has happened! He has stolen our horses and piked out of the valley."

Merry shook his head.

"I don't believe that, Hodge," he said. "I don't think Wiley would do such a thing."

"Then, why isn't he here?"

"He may have been attacked by enemies."

"If that had been the case, we would see some signs of the struggle. You can see for yourself that no struggle has taken place here."

"It's true," confessed Merry, "that there seem to be no indications of a struggle."

"Do you know, Frank, that I never have fully trusted that chap."

"I know, Bart, you made a serious mistake on one occasion by mistrusting him. You must remember that yourself."

"I do," confessed Hodge, reproved by Merry's words. "All the same, this disappearance is hard to explain. Our tent and outfit are gone. We're left here without provisions and without anything. In this condition it is possible we may starve."

"The condition is serious," Frank acknowledged. "At the same time, I think it possible Wiley decided this location was dangerous and transferred the camp to some other place. That's a reasonable explanation of his disappearance."

"A reasonable one perhaps; but if that had happened! he should be here on the watch for our return."

"Perhaps we have returned sooner than he expected."

"Well, what's to be done, Merry?"

"We will sit here a while and see if he doesn't turn up. At least, we can make some sort of a meal off this mountain goat."

"A mighty poor meal it will be!" muttered Hodge disgustedly.

A fire was built, however, and the mountain goat served to appease their hunger somewhat, although without salt it was far from palatable. There was plenty of feed and drink for the horses, therefore the animals did not suffer. In vain they waited for Wiley to return. Afternoon faded into nightfall and the sailor came not.

"Do you propose to remain here all night, Merry?" inquired Bart.

Frank shook his head.

"I don't think it advisable. We will find another spot."

With the gloom of night upon them, they set out, Frank in the lead. He had taken notice of a clump of thick timber in another part of the valley, and toward this he rode. In the timber they ensconced themselves and prepared to pa.s.s the night there. Worthington was strangely silent, but seemed as docile and as harmless as a child. When all preparations to spend the night in that spot were made, Frank announced to Bart that he proposed to go in search of their missing companion.

"What can you do in the night?" questioned Hodge. "You can't find him."

"Perhaps not," said Merry; "but I am going to try."

"I hate to have you do it alone."

"You must remain here to look out for Abe and Worthington."

When this was settled, Merry set out on foot. During their exploration of the valley he had observed a deep, narrow fissure near the southern extremity, into which the stream plunged before disappearing into the underground channel. To him on discovering this it had seemed a possible hiding place for any one seeking to escape observation. Something caused him to set his course toward this spot.

An hour later, from a place of concealment high up on a steep bank, Frank was peering into the fissure. What he discovered there surprised and puzzled him not a little. On a little level spot close by the stream a tent had been pitched. Before the tent a small fire was burning, and squatted around this fire were three persons who seemed to be enjoying themselves in fancied security. The moment Merry's eyes fell on two of them he recognized them as having been members of the Terrible Thirty.

They were the ruffians Hank Shawmut and Kip Henry. The third person, who seemed perfectly at his ease as he reclined on the ground and puffed at a corn-cob pipe, was Cap'n Wiley!