LYNCH CONFESSES.
At sight of the pistol Mike started violently, betraying much agitation.
It seemed that his pale face grew still whiter. For a moment he sat
quite still, but finally, summoning command of himself, he extended a
hand and took the weapon from Dick.
Merriwell stood watching every shade of expression that flitted across
the face of the sandy-haired youth. He was wondering if Mike would deny
having seen the pistol. In such a case Dick was ready with a hot
denouncement. In fact, he had practically determined to make public the
truth of the affair and force Lynch out of college. Why not? Certainly
there was no reason why he should permit the fellow to remain there
after this second attempt to commit murder. The running down of the
rowboat might be called a piece of reckless maliciousness without any
deliberate desire to take human life, but when, with a loaded pistol in
his hand, a man creeps up behind another man whom he hates, it certainly
looks like premeditated crime of the most bloodthirsty sort.
Twice Lynch sought to moisten his lips with his tongue before speaking.
When he did speak his voice was husky and faltering.
“Where did you get this, Merriwell?” he asked.
“You haven’t answered my question,” reminded Dick coldly. “When you do
answer it I’ll answer yours. Have you ever seen that pistol before?”
“I—I think I have,” muttered Mike.
“Well, it was picked up on the baseball ground after you were knocked
senseless by that foul ball. It was found where you dropped when the
ball hit you.”
Lynch drew a deep breath and a shiver seemed to run over him from his
head to his feet.
“Then it was no dream,” he whispered huskily. “I was thinking about that
when you came in. I was trying to clear up things in my mind. I was
wondering what had really happened and what I had dreamed as happening.”
Still holding the pistol and fixing his gaze upon it, Mike lifted one
hand to his bandaged head, apparently seeking to get a grip on his
disturbed and scattered thoughts.
“Merriwell,” he said, “I wish you would tell me a few things. We ran
down a rowboat containing you and Buckhart, didn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Buckhart escaped and was pulled on board our launch.”
“Yes.”
“But you—we saw nothing of you after the rowboat was wrecked. We
believed you were drowned. Buckhart thought so. We searched for your
body until long after it was dark. Others joined in the search. Finally
we gave it up. That night in Fred’s saloon we saw your white face
through the panel hole in the wall. We were drinking heavily. Du Boise
fainted. I’m sure both Ditson and myself believed we had seen an
apparition, a ghost. Du Boise tried to explain it by saying it was a
hallucination. I didn’t sleep much that night—in fact, I don’t think I
slept at all. I never passed through such a night. At daybreak I started
out into the country, seeking to get away from myself and my haunting
thoughts. Perhaps you don’t believe me, Merriwell, but I was the most
wretched fellow in the world. I didn’t think there was any real danger
that we would drown you when we ran your boat down. I wanted to give you
a ducking. There was malice in my heart perhaps, but not murder. I hope
you believe this.”
Without speaking, Dick motioned for him to continue.
“I say I started out early the following morning, but I’m not sure of
that. I don’t seem to know just what happened. I have fancied it was
nothing but a dream. I have fancied that I remained and dreamed that I
rose and took a long walk into the country. In a strip of woods I
stopped to rest. Along came some fellows taking a morning run. You were
with them. This seems to be a part of my dream. Tell me, Merriwell, did
such a thing happen?”
“Yes, such a thing happened. You seemed terribly excited at sight of me.
You were brought back to town and placed under the care of a doctor. To
all outward appearances, you recovered in a very short time; but ever
since then up to the present day you have maintained that I was dead,
and whenever you met me you have refused to look at me.”
Gripping the edge of the table, Lynch slowly rose to his feet.
“Perhaps you’ll not believe it, Merriwell,” he said, “but I think I’ve
been slightly deranged. Getting hit by that baseball seems to have
straightened out my mind and brought me round.”
Merriwell pointed sternly at the pistol.
“What were you doing with that weapon?” he demanded.
Lynch shook his head.
“I can’t tell you,” he answered hoarsely.
“Was the pistol loaded?”
“It’s not loaded now, is it?”
“Was it loaded when you started to creep up behind me with it in your
hand?”
“I think it was.”
“What were you going to do?”
“Heaven help me! I am afraid I meant to shoot you.”
Once more Mike was trembling, and it seemed necessary for him to cling
to the study table in order to stand.
“I’m glad you see fit to tell me the truth,” said Dick grimly. “Here are
the bullets with which the pistol was loaded.”
He produced them and held them in the hollow of his hand.
“Silver bullets!” whispered Mike.
“Silver?”
“Yes.”
“Why silver?”
“To destroy a ghost.”
“To what?” cried Dick.
“It sounds foolish, doesn’t it?” muttered Lynch. “It’s an old
superstition. I heard my grandmother tell of it when I was a mere child.
My grandmother came from Ireland. She said the only way to lay a spook
was to shoot it with a silver bullet.”
“And you—you believed such a ridiculous thing, Lynch? That’s too much!”
“I don’t know whether I believed it or not,” muttered Mike. “You
understand that I was somewhat daffy. Whenever I saw you I fancied I
beheld a ghost. I thought myself haunted. In this state of mind I
remembered the words of my grandmother and resolved to exorcise you with
the aid of silver bullets. I seemed to remember some crazy conviction
that you would vanish instantly if shot with a silver bullet.”
In spite of himself, Dick smiled. It seemed unspeakably preposterous,
and yet had not this fellow crept upon him with a pistol containing such
bullets?
“I bought that old pistol,” Lynch went on. “You see an ordinary pistol
wouldn’t do. I had to get one that used powder and ball. I bought a
bullet mold and had a number of silver bullets made. At first I thought
I would creep up behind you some time when no one else was near, but
after a while I decided that, as long as you were a ghost, it made no
difference when I put an end to you. Certainly it could not be a crime
to destroy a ghost. I went to the game to-day little thinking that I
would find you there. When I discovered you I couldn’t keep my eyes off
you. I don’t remember anything at all about the game. At last I became
so worked up that I resolved to do the thing without loss of time. You
know what followed. This is the whole story, Merriwell. I don’t ask you
to believe a word of it. I don’t expect you to believe it. I don’t think
I would believe it if I were in your place. I’ve made a confession. I
acknowledge I tried to shoot you. Under any circumstances I shall not
deny it. You have all the evidence you need against me. I’ll wait here
for the officers.”
It must be confessed that Merriwell was puzzled and felt himself in a
peculiar position. If Lynch spoke the truth, Dick had no desire to
punish him, as he now seemed genuinely penitent. Furthermore, his
actions had been those of a deranged man.
“Hadn’t you better take a vacation, Lynch?” suggested Merriwell. “Don’t
you think you need it?”
“I suppose you mean that I must leave college for good? You are going to
force me out?”
“No. I mean exactly what I said—I think it will be beneficial to you if
you take a vacation without waiting for the term to close. I have not
accepted your story as true, and yet I hope it is true. I’ve always
fancied you to be a person with an ordinary amount of common sense. No
person with ordinary intelligence would have thought of shooting an
enemy, but if your mind was in a condition that led you to try such a
thing, it’s high time that you gave up studying and sought rest and
quiet in the country. If you don’t, you’re liable to break down entirely
and go to pieces beyond cure.”
“I presume you’re afraid I’ll get another daffy streak, and repeat the
attempt on your life. I don’t blame you, Merriwell. Still, I’m not going
to leave college now. I’m all right at the present moment, and I believe
I’ll remain so. You know I’ve been dreadfully worried over my bills
here, for I ran deeply in debt. I didn’t know what would happen to me. I
thought I was swamped. As a last resort, I wrote a letter to my mother,
making a full confession. This morning I received her answer. She sent
me a check. It was large enough to enable me to pay all my debts and
have something left over. For the first time in weeks I’m straightened
out and ready to go ahead without worry. The only thing that will
prevent me is this business to-day. If you proceed against me, my
college career is ended. I have been a rather nasty enemy toward you,
Merriwell. I know that. I’ve hated you bitterly, and I’ve tried my best
to injure you. It was wrong. Now I throw myself on your mercy. Do
whatever you like.”
With a sigh, Lynch sat down.