THE RUINED BRIDGE.
“I believe I am on the trail at last!”
Frank Merriwell uttered the words. It was two hours after Flynn’s escape
from the Windsor, and a dozen persons had been searching for the man
ever since.
Frank had found that Flynn, after restoring the hired wheel, in his
possession, to the dealer of whom he had obtained it, had returned that
very morning and bought the wheel outright, taking it away with him.
This was at a time after he retired to the room in the hotel, and was,
beyond a doubt, after his escape into the back yard.
Then Merry reasoned that the fellow had purchased the wheel to aid him
in escaping from the city. Merriwell, Diamond and several of the Belfast
wheelmen set out by different streets in the attempt to get on the track
of the fugitive. Frank had ridden north, toward City Point, making
inquiries as he went. At last he received information that led him to
believe he was on the right scent.
Over the bridge and into the country beyond rode Frank. He found a man
who had seen a bicyclist pass an hour before, and the description fitted
Flynn.
At first the road was furrowed by many teams that had gone into the city
that morning, and it was useless to look for the track of a bicycle.
This made it necessary for Frank to halt many times to make inquiries,
and he knew the fugitive was gaining on him if he were pushing on
steadily.
“Never mind!” said Merry, with savage determination, “if I am on the
right trail, I’ll never give up till I have run him down.”
Once or twice he proceeded some distance on the wrong road, and was
forced to turn back and take another course. These mistakes were
exasperating.
The sun rose higher and higher till it blazed down with crushing heat
from almost directly overhead.
“Never supposed it would be so hot up here in this country,” muttered
the pursuer.
But heat did not cause him to slacken his pace. He drove forward
steadily, covered with dirt and perspiration.
All the forenoon he tracked Flynn. He was miles from Belfast, having
passed through Waldo, Brooks, Monroe and other places. At noon he was in
a hilly country, where the roads were rough and dangerous. He found
where the man he was after had stopped at a farmhouse and eaten dinner.
Frank did not stop there. On the dusty road he could see the trail of
the bicycle. It was plain enough now, and he did not need to ask
questions. He knew he was riding in pursuit, for the track told him
that, as the resistance of the air to the bicycle, and, in a lesser
degree, the resistance of the roadway, caused furrows to appear on
either side of the bicycle track, and those furrows formed an angle with
the track of the bicycle in the direction in which it was going. Frank
had discovered by observation that a bicycle could be tracked in the
right direction on a dusty road with the aid of these telltale furrows,
and now his knowledge stood him in good stead.
The intense heat continued, but in the northwest black “thunder heads”
were pushing upward against the sky. Pretty soon the thunder began to
mutter and rumble.
“A shower is coming,” thought Frank, “and it will blot out this trail.
Can’t I overtake the fellow before the rain strikes?”
Onward he flew. He drove his wheel up a hard hill that was thickly
wooded. When he reached the top he saw that the rain would soon strike
him. Jagged flashes of lightning shot athwart the black clouds, which
had risen till they were almost over his head.
He started to descend the hill, but had not gone far before he saw an
old road that led off into the woods, and toward that road a single
track turned out of the dust of the main highway.
Immediately he leaped from his wheel and quickly turned it into the old
road.
“I am close upon him!” thought Frank. “Not a moment is to be wasted.”
He mounted again and drove onward, as fast as he could ride, over the
unused road. Through a long opening amid the trees he caught a glimpse
of another rider just disappearing from view.
“There he is!”
A terrible crash of thunder drowned his words. There was a hush in the
woods—the hush before the storm.
The road grew steeper and steeper, but Frank rode at furious speed, for
something told him there was danger that he would be given the slip once
more by Flynn. Ahead of him the road curved out of sight, but he knew
the foot of the steep hill must be near. He managed to keep his feet on
the pedals, but did not try to hold the flying bicycle in check.
Round the curve he sped, and then a gasp of alarm escaped his lips, for
directly ahead of him was a small river, and where it had been spanned
at one time by an old bridge, only the rotting, sagging timbers were
left. The planking had been torn away, leaving only the stringers.
He was right upon the ruined bridge, and, finding he could not stop, he
felt certain that he was rushing to certain destruction. And nowhere
before him could he see Parker Flynn. He had been tricked by the rascal,
who might be watching him at that moment.
At the very last moment, Frank turned his wheel so that it struck one of
the stringers, to which broken pieces of planking still clung. In a most
remarkable manner, he held the wheel steady, and straight along that
stringer it shot. Even then, in that moment of peril, he remembered
seeing a bicycle that lay under the water at the bottom of the river.
How he crossed that stringer he could not tell, but he did so, reaching
the other side in safety. It was a most miraculous feat, and was more of
a chance than anything else.
Off the bicycle he sprang, and back to the bridge he rushed. He walked
out on the stringer and looked down at the bicycle beneath the water.
From some timbers fluttered a strip of cloth. He looked down the stream,
and in an eddy he could see a hat floating round and round. Then he
hurried to the bank, made his way down the river, secured a long stick
and drew the hat in.
“It’s Flynn’s!” he said, before his hand touched it. “He did not escape
going into the river, and he must have struck with terrible force
against some of these broken timbers. It’s two to one he’s drowned.”
Securing the hat, he found the name of a Boston dealer inside, and there
was no longer a doubt in his mind but it had belonged to Parker Flynn.
There was a patter of rain on the leaves and a distant roar that told of
the coming downpour. At a distance up the river was an old mill, and
toward this Merry hurried. He reached it just as the storm broke in all
its fury.
For an hour the rain came down in torrents, the lightning blazed and the
thunder shook the earth. When it was all over, Frank started out to find
Flynn.
He did not find the man. After searching till late in the afternoon, he
secured the aid of a number of farmers. At nightfall they had found
nothing. Some of them were certain the body of the man would be
recovered from a pond into which the river ran about a mile below the
broken bridge, but night brought an end to the search.
* * * * *
Nearly forty-eight hours later Frank rode back into Belfast. His
disappearance and prolonged absence had caused great wonder and
excitement, and his return was hailed with satisfaction. He went
straight to the rooms of the Belfast Wheelmen and found Diamond there.
Frank told the story of his pursuit, and expressed regret at being
forced to say that neither Flynn alive nor his body had been found, but
the farmers who had assisted in the search were confident that, in time,
the body would be recovered from the pond.
He asked anxiously for Hodge.
“Bart is all right,” said Diamond. “He has had the very best of care.
Yesterday he was brought up from Northport, and you can’t guess where he
is.”
“I won’t try.”
“He is at Miss Mitshef’s home. She told her mother all about the
encounter, and Mrs. Mitshef insisted that Bart be brought there and stay
there till he had quite recovered. He has recovered already, but he
knows when he is well off, and he is pretending to be an invalid. I
don’t blame him, either.”
“Eh? Why, I thought——”
“Hush, Frank!” said Jack, quickly. “I know I expressed an unfavorable
opinion of certain young ladies, but I want to take everything back. I
was up there last evening to see Bart. Hattie Hazle was there, and I
have changed my mind concerning those girls. Mabel Mitshef is cultivated
and refined, as also is Hattie Hazle, although she seems to entertain a
positive dislike for me. I was altogether too hasty in forming an
opinion of them.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Frank, with a twinkle in his eyes. “It can’t be
you are forgetting the little girl at Bar Harbor?”
Jack blushed, but quickly said:
“Not a bit of it, Merriwell! But I did want to retract what I said about
these girls here. There is to be a party at Miss Mitshef’s house
to-night, and we are all invited. If you did not return, it was to be
postponed.”
“Well, we will attend the party,” smiled Frank. “I am ready for a little
pleasure after what I have passed through in the last three days.”
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