SILVER BULLETS.
Mike Lynch dropped into an old curio shop and inspected an old-fashioned
powder-and-ball pistol.
“Will it shoot all right?” inquired Mike, as he snapped the weapon.
“Vy, certainly, mine frendt—vy, certainly it vill,” answered the Jew
proprietor. “It vos a goot pistol. It vos choost as goot as it efer vos.
But you don’t vant it to shoot vid, do you? Most beople buy such dings
as a decorations. Dey put dem up on der vall to look ad.”
“That’s what I want it for,” said Mike; “but, still, I want to know that
the old thing will really shoot. If it was properly loaded, would it
kill anything?”
“Vy, certainly, mine frendt—certainly. Dot pistol vent through der
Revolutionary Var. Heer vos der bullet mold dot goes vid it.”
“You don’t say so! Why, I thought they used flintlocks then. This is a
percussion cap pistol. Do you suppose I could get any caps to fit it?”
“Right over at der hardware store,” said the old Jew. “You vill find
plenty of dem, mine frendt.”
“What’s the price of the pistol and mold?”
“Fife tollars.”
“I’ll give you a dollar.”
“Oh, mine cootness! Do you vant to rob me? I pay four tollar for dat
pistol.”
“All I have is a dollar,” said Mike, taking out a bill. “Here it is.
Take it or not just as you please.”
“Cootn’t you make it two tollar?” whined the old Jew. “I vill lose money
on it at dot, but I vant to get rid of it.”
“Take it or not,” repeated Mike, waving the dollar bill in front of the
shopkeeper’s face.
He got the pistol and left with it in his pocket. Visiting the hardware
store, he secured a box of caps and a small supply of powder. In the
hardware store Lynch found a tinsmith to whom he made a most peculiar
proposition.
“Do you see this?” said Mike, producing the bullet mold. “I want you to
mold me a few silver bullets.”
The tinsmith gazed at him in surprise.
“Silver bullets?” he questioned doubtfully. “Why aren’t lead bullets
good enough?”
“I want silver bullets,” persisted Mike. “A silver bullet is the only
thing that will destroy a ghost.”
“Look here, young man,” said the tinknocker, “is there anything the
matter with your head, or are you talking to hear yourself?”
Mike winked gravely.
“Never mind,” he said. “You have a nice little furnace there, and here
is a couple of silver dollars. Can’t you melt that money and mold me
some bullets?”
“It’s against the law to destroy United States money.”
“But no one besides ourselves will know anything about it. I’ll give you
five dollars to do the job for me.”
“Five dollars is an inducement. Have you got it?”
“Here it is,” said Mike, handing it over. “I’ll pay you in advance, and
I’ll wait for those bullets.”
When he left he had several fresh-molded silver bullets in his pocket.
The night, in the privacy of his room, with the door securely locked,
Lynch carefully loaded and capped the old pistol. Two of the silver
bullets were rammed down on top of the powder.
“It’s my only way to get rid of Merriwell’s spook,” he muttered. “My
grandmother used to say that a silver bullet would always lay a spook.
Unless I get rid of this one it will drive me crazy. I’ll find an
opportunity to do the job to-morrow.”
* * * * *
During the game between Yale and Cornell, Dick Merriwell sat on the Yale
bench. He did so at the request of Keene, who had been sent in to pitch.
Wilbur believed the presence of the lad who had coached him would serve
to steady his nerves and carry him through the critical points of the
game.
Keene astonished and delighted the Yale crowd, pitching a masterly game
from start to finish. Had he failed in any inning, Yale would have been
defeated, for the score was running close and Cornell had a team that
would not be likely to yield any advantage it might secure.
Mike Lynch sat on the bleachers with several of his classmates. Having
discovered Dick on the Yale bench, Mike stared at him through inning
after inning, paying very little attention to the conversation of his
companions or the excited cheering of the great crowd.
Ditson nudged Bern Wolfe and called his attention to Lynch.
“Mighty queer about Mike,” he whispered. “I was talking with the doctor
to-day. He seems to think Mike has received some severe shock from which
he will not recover unless he gets a counter shock. Just look at him,
Bern. See his eyes. See him glare. Why, he looks absolutely dangerous
to-day.”
“It isn’t right for him to stay in college,” muttered Wolfe. “He ought
to get away and take a rest.”
In the seventh inning Lynch rose from his seat and announced that he was
going to leave the field. Although his friends felt that some one should
accompany him, the game was at such an exciting point that not one of
them wished to miss any of it. Therefore Mike was permitted to depart
alone.
Instead of leaving the field, Lynch descended from the bleachers,
followed the walk round toward the locker house, and let himself in by
the gate onto the field. He was wearing a light overcoat, although the
day was very warm. Beneath that coat there was a strange bulge over his
hip pocket.
“I’ll do it now!” he whispered huskily, as his eyes fell on Dick
Merriwell’s back. “I’ll end it right here!”
His hand found and gripped the stock of the old pistol. Swiftly
advancing toward the unconscious lad, Mike produced the weapon and
softly cocked it.
Just then a foul tip carromed from the bat of a Cornell man, came
whistling through the air, and struck Lynch near the temple, dropping
him unconscious to the ground.
When Mike opened his eyes he was in the locker room and Merriwell was
the first person he saw. Several others were there, but Dick was on his
knees, working over Lynch.
Mike caught his breath and lifted a hand to his head.
“What—what happened to me?” he muttered huskily.
“You were hit by a baseball,” answered Dick. “It knocked you senseless.
It hit you in a bad place, too—close to the temple.”
“Hit by a baseball!” muttered Lynch. “Knocked me out, didn’t it? Isn’t
it queer, but I seem to have been dreaming. I seem to remember the
queerest things, but they’re all hazy like the visions of a dream. I
thought you were drowned, Merriwell. I thought we ran you down in a
steam launch, and then it seemed that your ghost was haunting me. What a
ridiculous dream, wasn’t it?”
“Ridiculous, indeed,” nodded Dick. “But you see I’m not drowned, and you
realize I can’t be a ghost in my present material condition.”
“Oh, yes, I realize that,” said Mike. “Of course I know there’s no such
things as ghosts. What’s that cheering?”
The sound of the cheering spectators came to their ears. Into the room
rushed several bronzed, healthy-looking baseball men all in a hilarious
condition of triumph. One of them espied Dick and cried:
“You’ll have your hands full coaching the rest of our pitchers now,
Merriwell! By Jove, Keene pitched a corking game! And he says you made
him fit for the job! We won, four to three! Hurrah for our new coach!”
“Rah! rah! rah! New coach! new coach! Merriwell,” cried another chap,
flinging his sweater into the air.
“Congratulations, Merriwell,” said Lynch. “You’re a winner at anything
you attempt. You always come out on top.”
Dick now coached Keene for the great forthcoming game with Cornell. When
the two teams met, Yale came out victorious and again Merriwell was
hailed as a hero and the credit for the victory freely given him.
Meantime, however, the pistol carried by Mike Lynch on the day he was
struck senseless by a foul ball had been found, and trouble was brewing
for Mike.