STOVEBRIDGE FINDS AN ALLY.
Brose Stovebridge dropped down in a chair beside his friend Marston and
pulled out his cigarette case.
“Have one?” he invited, extending it to the other.
Marston selected a cigarette languidly.
“How did this fellow Merriwell happen to honor the club with his
presence to-day?” he inquired sarcastically.
Stovebridge struck a match and held it to the other’s cigarette; then,
lighting his own, he sank back in the chair.
“He’s Clingwood’s friend, I believe,” he answered with apparent
indifference. “You speak as though you didn’t like him.”
“I don’t,” snapped Marston. “I hate him--hate the whole brood.”
The blond fellow raised his eyebrows.
“I didn’t know you’d ever met him,” he commented. “You certainly didn’t
greet him as though you had ever laid eyes on him before.”
“I haven’t,” the other said bitterly. “I know his brother--that’s
enough.”
“His brother?” queried Stovebridge.
“Yes, Frank Merriwell. I ran up against him at Yale, and of all the
straight-laced freaks he took the cake--wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t smoke;
wouldn’t play poker, wouldn’t do anything but bone, and go in for
athletics.”
“Humph!” remarked Stovebridge cynically. “I don’t wonder you didn’t
like him. He wasn’t in your class at all. But if he was as good an
athlete as his brother, he must have been some pumpkins. I don’t just
see, though, how that accounts for your violent antipathy. Why didn’t
you let him go on his benighted way and have nothing to do with him?”
Marston’s heavy brows contracted in a scowl.
“You don’t suppose I cared a hang what he did, do you?” he snarled.
“That didn’t worry me any, but he had to get meddlesome and butt into
my affairs. Got my best friend so crazy about him that he went and gave
up cards and all that, and trained with Merriwell’s crowd. Of course,
he was no use to me after that. Do you wonder that I dislike Frank
Merriwell, and his brother as well?”
Stovebridge hesitated.
“Don’t know as I do?” he said in a preoccupied manner.
He had been thinking of something else.
They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Once or twice Marston glanced
curiously at his friend, who was scowling at the floor.
“What’s the matter with you to-day, Brose?” he asked presently. “You
act like you had something on your mind.”
The other looked up with a sudden start.
“Why, no; I----”
Marston shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“Don’t tell me, if you don’t want to,” he drawled. “But if it’s
something you want to keep to yourself, for goodness sake, wipe that
scowl off your face and brace up.”
Stovebridge eyed the other with a speculative glance. Why not confide
in Marston? He hated Merriwell and would certainly never peach.
Besides, he might suggest something helpful.
“I’ll tell you about it, Fred,” he said in a low tone, as he drew his
chair closer to his friend. “I’m in a deuce of a scrape. I--I--was the
one--who ran over that kid this morning.”
His face flushed a little; his eyes were averted. He did not find it
easy to tell, even to Fred Marston.
The latter gave a low whistle.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You don’t say! How did it happen?”
“It was at the bend by the Hanlon farm,” Stovebridge explained. “I was
hitting up a pretty good clip, and when I came round the bend she was
standing in the middle of the road. There was plenty of time for her to
get away, but she never moved. I tried to run to one side, but there
wasn’t room, and--the kid went under.”
“I always said they didn’t have sense enough to get out of the way,”
Marston remarked in a vexed tone.
Then he looked curiously at his friend.
“What made you beat it?” he asked. “Why didn’t you stop and pick her
up? It wasn’t your fault--no one could have blamed you, if you only
hadn’t run away.”
“I couldn’t, Fred--I simply couldn’t,” Stovebridge confessed, without
lifting his eyes. “My one idea was to get away before any one saw me.
You know the beastly things they do to a fellow sometimes. Why, I might
have been jugged for a year or more.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed the other. “Still----”
He stopped abruptly and looked out over the golf course in a meditative
way.
“You managed pretty well, though,” he said presently as he turned back
to Stovebridge. “No one saw you on your way here, I suppose?”
The other shook his head.
“No; if it wasn’t for that beastly cap I should feel quite safe. But
Merriwell suspects me on that account.”
Marston’s beady eyes glittered.
“Let him suspect!” he snapped angrily. “We’ll fix that all right. It
wouldn’t be safe for you to buy another, but there’s nothing to prevent
my doing so.”
“Of course there isn’t!” Stovebridge exclaimed in a tone of relief.
“And you’ll do it?”
Marston’s teeth snapped together.
“I certainly will,” he declared. “I’d do more than that to spite a
Merriwell. Lend me your car and I’ll go to Wilton right after lunch.”
Stovebridge breathed a sigh of relief. How fortunate he had confided
in Marston. With the question of the cap settled and Jim Hanlon
sidetracked, he would have nothing to fear. Dick Merriwell might do his
worst, but he could prove nothing.
Marston arose to his feet, yawning.
“Well, let’s toddle in and get something sustaining,” he suggested. “I
feel the need of a little bracer.”
“Don’t forget to pick out a medium check,” Stovebridge reminded, as
they strolled through the reception hall to the dining room beyond. “I
said mine was a little larger than the one he picked up, but if you get
it too pronounced, Bob Jennings will smell a rat. He’s a bit doubtful
now.”
“Trust me,” Marston returned confidently.
They settled themselves comfortably at a small table near one of the
windows, and a waiter hurried up.
“Two Martinis--dry,” Marston said, unfolding his napkin. “Bring them
right away.”
“Not any for me,” Stovebridge put in hastily. “I’ve got to run this
afternoon.”
“Oh, shucks! What’s one cocktail?” expostulated the other. “Just put a
little ginger into you.”
But Stovebridge persisted in his refusal; already he had taken
considerably more stimulant than he felt was wise. So when the
cocktails came Marston drank them both.
While his friend was writing out the order, Stovebridge glanced idly
about the well-filled room. He gave a slight start as his eyes met
those of Dick Merriwell, who was seated with his party three or four
tables away. The Yale man was looking at him with a certain steady
scrutiny that was a little disconcerting. There was no gleam of
friendliness in his dark eyes, but rather a cold, steely glitter. His
fine mouth was set in a hard line, curving disdainfully at the corners,
as though he were regarding something beneath his contempt. It was not
a pleasant expression, and, despite his belief that the other could
really prove nothing, Stovebridge could not help feeling a little
uneasy.
“Who are you staring at?”
Marston’s drawling voice roused Stovebridge, and, turning quickly, he
looked at his friend.
“Merriwell,” he breathed softly.
“Bah!” snapped the other. “He can’t do anything. We’ll put a spoke in
his wheel. For goodness’ sake, Brose, do brace up and forget it!”
Stovebridge made an effort to do so, but all the time he was eating
lunch he had an uneasy feeling that those cold eyes were still fixed
upon him, and it was only by the most determined exertion of will power
that he kept himself from looking again toward the table where Roger
Clingwood and his guests seemed to be enjoying themselves so thoroughly.
As they came out to the veranda after lunch, Roger Clingwood pulled out
his watch impatiently.
“Almost two!” he exclaimed. “What in the world is the matter with
Layton?”
He turned to a short, pleasant-faced, youngish-looking fellow who,
also watch in hand, was looking anxiously down the drive.
“Heard anything of Charlie Layton, Niles?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” the other answered petulantly. “I can’t understand
what’s delayed him. He promised to be here soon after twelve, and
the race was to be pulled off at three. People are beginning to come
already.”
“Sartoris is there to meet him, I believe,” Clingwood remarked.
“Yes, and I tried just now to get him on the phone, but couldn’t.”
Jack Niles shut his watch with a snap and shoved it back in his pocket
irritably. He was extremely homely. Every feature seemed to be either
too large or too small, or not placed right on his face; but for all
that there was something very attractive in his expression, and in the
straightforward, honest directness of his brown eyes. His clothes were
loud almost to eccentricity, and it was quite evident that he was a
thorough-going, out-and-out sport.
As he started to walk away, Roger Clingwood caught his arm.
“Oh, by the way, Jack,” he said suddenly, “I want you to meet my friend
Merriwell. Dick, this is Jack Niles, to whose efforts is due the fact
that we still occasionally have athletic events at the club.”
As Niles turned quickly, his hand outstretched, the worried look on his
face gave place to one of surprised interest.
“Not Dick Merriwell, of Yale?” he asked eagerly.
Dick smiled as he took the other’s hand.
“I happen to be,” he said quietly.
He felt a sudden liking for this homely young fellow with the honest
eyes, who looked as though he was square down to the very bone.
“Well, say!” Niles exclaimed, as he gripped Dick’s hand and worked it
up and down like a pump handle. “If this isn’t a little bit of all
right. I’ve seen you play ball, and I’ve seen you run, but I never had
a chance of shaking hands before. What are you doing away out here?”
“Touring with some friends of mine,” Dick answered smiling. “I’d like
you to meet them.”
He introduced Buckhart, Tucker and Bigelow, and for a few minutes they
stood talking together.
“I don’t know what we’ll do if Layton throws us down,” Niles said
anxiously. “We’ve made so much talk about the race, and there’ll be
an awful mob here to see it. Oh, there’s Sartoris! Now we’ll find out
something. Excuse me, will you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he dashed down the steps toward a car that
had just driven up. Its occupant, a tall, bare-headed fellow in tennis
flannels, sprang out, waving a yellow envelope in his hand.
“He can’t get here until to-morrow,” he explained. “Held up by a wreck
on the road.”
Niles took the telegram in silence, and, as he read it, his face
shadowed.
“Well, what do you think of that?” he muttered, as he crumpled it
in his hand. “To-morrow! And look at the bunch that’s here to-day,
expecting to see something good. Coming thicker every minute, too.”
He glanced down the drive where several cars were in sight, heading
toward the clubhouse.
“Wouldn’t that drive you to the batty house!” he went on. “I suppose
it’s up to yours truly to get busy and announce that there ‘won’t be no
race.’”
His eyes, full of an expression of whimsical chagrin, roved slowly
over the crowd which had hastily gathered at the approach of Sartoris,
until they rested on Dick Merriwell’s face.
The next moment a gleam of hope had leaped into them, and Niles sprang
up the steps to the Yale man’s side.
“Say, what’s the matter with your taking Layton’s place, old fellow,
and saving my rap?” he asked eagerly.
Merriwell smiled a little.
“It would be rather difficult to take his place,” he said slowly.
“Layton is one of the best milers in the country, and it’s a long time
since I’ve done any running.”
“Oh, that be hanged!” exploded Niles. “You’re too blamed modest. You
can do it if you want to. Come ahead, old fellow, and save me from
making an ass of myself by disappointing this crowd.”
“When you put it that way, Niles, I can scarcely refuse,” Dick smiled.
“I’ll be very glad to do what you want, only you mustn’t expect too
much of me.”
Jack Niles was overjoyed.
“That’s bully!” he exclaimed. “You’ve helped me out of a deuce of a
hole and saved the day. It’s just my luck to find a substitute as good
or better than the original.”
Brose Stovebridge stood near, a slight sneer on his face.
“It’s lucky I’m not the one who didn’t show up,” he drawled. “Merriwell
seems to think such a lot of this fellow Layton that I don’t suppose he
could possibly have been induced to run against him, if our positions
were reversed.”
Apparently his words were intended for the man next to him, but they
were quite loud enough for the Yale man to hear.
The latter turned and surveyed Stovebridge with a cool, disconcerting
glance.
“I happen to have run against Layton several times, Mr. Stovebridge,”
he said quietly. “If he were here to-day, I should be very glad to do
so again. I hesitated just now--for another reason.”
To the guilty man, his meaning was obvious; and though Stovebridge
shrugged his shoulders with affected indifference, his face flushed,
and he made no reply.
“Come ahead, fellows, and get ready,” Niles broke in briskly. “We’ve
got just ten minutes to start on time.”
He took Dick’s arm and hustled him through to the dressing room, where
he hunted up running trunks, shoes, and shirt; and in less than the
allotted time, the Yale man was ready for the contest.
As they came out of the clubhouse and walked over to the track,
Merriwell felt a thrill of the old enthusiasm. The well-kept track and
the crowd of spectators thronging both sides made his blood course more
swiftly and caused his eyes to sparkle.
They went directly to the starting point, where Stovebridge presently
joined them. Niles, mounted on a stand, megaphone in hand, waved his
arm for silence. When the hub-bub of talk and laughter had ceased he
put the instrument to his lips.
“Gentlemen,” he declaimed, “I have to announce that Mr. Layton has been
detained by a wreck and cannot reach the club this afternoon.”
A murmur of disappointment arose from the crowd, which was quickly
stilled by another motion from Niles.
“I have, however,” he went on, “secured an efficient substitute in the
person of Dick Merriwell, of Yale, who has kindly consented to run in
order that we shall not be disappointed.”
As he jumped to the ground, the quick round of hearty applause, mingled
with cheers, showed that Merriwell’s name was not unknown. Then the
buzz of talk started up again with renewed vigor, as the judges and
timekeepers consulted with Niles and arranged the details of the race.
Dick stood a little to one side of the mark, talking to Buckhart, whose
face was aglow with enthusiasm.
“Lick the stuffing out of the coyote, pard,” urged Brad, in a low tone.
“You can sure do it if you try.”
“No question of my trying, old fellow,” Merriwell smiled. “There’s no
use in going into a thing unless you do your best! But they seem to
think this fellow is pretty good, and you know I’m out of practice.”
“That don’t worry me a whole lot,” the Texan grinned.
“Say, Merriwell, come over here, will you?” Niles called, standing near
Stovebridge.
“We’ll have to toss for positions,” he explained, as Dick walked over
to him. “The track is just a mile in circumference, so that you’ll have
to make one complete circuit, and of course, the fellow on the inside
has a little the advantage.”
He took a coin out of his pocket and sent it spinning in the air.
“Heads, or tails?”
“Tails,” Dick said quickly.
The other caught the coin deftly.
“Heads it is,” he grinned. “You lose. Take your places,
gentlemen--Stovebridge, inside; Merriwell, out.”
Dick toed the mark, and his eyes wandered for an instant down the long
line of eagerly watching men. As he did so, he caught sight of the
dark, sullen face of Jim Hanlon glaring at him from behind two of the
clubmen.
“Still thinks I’m it, by the looks of him,” the Yale man said to
himself. “I must have a talk with him when this is over.”
Then he thrust the fellow out of his mind and crouched for the start.
Stovebridge was beside him, vibrant and ready. The two timekeepers
stood by the mark, stop watches in hand. Niles stepped back a pace and
drew a small revolver from his pocket.
“Are you ready?” he called in a clear voice.
He raised the revolver above his head.
“Set!”
Both runners quivered slightly, as they waited with every muscle tense
the moment when they could shoot forward down the track.
The sharp crack of the pistol split the silence, and like a flash both
men leaped forward, to the accompaniment of a bellow from the watching
crowd, and flew down the stretch of hard, dry cinders.
Merriwell had made the better start and was slightly ahead of the
other man. Presently it was seen that this lead was slowly increasing,
and the spectators cheered wildly as they observed it, for as a rule
they were an impartial lot and believed in shouting for the best man.
Besides they were grateful to the stranger for having made the race
possible.
Almost imperceptibly this lead increased. In spite of his lack of
practice, the Yale man was wonderfully speedy and ran in almost perfect
form, and with amazing ease. His body was bent forward but slightly,
with his head held up naturally. He threw his legs out well in front
with a full easy stride, and brought his feet down squarely, his thighs
and knees thrown a little forward. There was absolutely no lost
motion. His arms swung easily beside his body, and, with every stride,
seemed to help him along.
Stovebridge ran well, but he had a bad trick of swinging his arms
back and forth across his body, which retarded him slightly, and
moreover, in his haste to finish the stride, he bent his knee somewhat,
thus losing a fraction of an inch each time, which would mount up
considerably in the course of the mile.
The first quarter of a mile was made by Merriwell in a fraction over
a minute--almost sprinting time. Stovebridge was barely two seconds
longer. Then both men seemed to settle down to a slightly easier gait,
for such speed could not be kept up for the entire distance, and the
second quarter took several seconds longer.
The excitement was intense. Men shoved and jostled each other in their
eagerness to get a good view; some even ran out onto the track behind
the runners. There was no more talking and laughing. A tense silence
had fallen upon the crowd as they watched breathlessly.
Suddenly the Yale man was seen to stumble and almost lose his footing.
As he recovered his balance with a tremendous effort, Stovebridge shot
by him, and a great sigh went up from the crowd.
“He’s twisted his ankle!” gasped Jack Niles, his fingers closing on
Buckhart’s arm with unconscious strength.
The Texan made no reply. His face was set and a little pale.
The next instant Merriwell had recovered himself and flashed on down
the track with almost his former speed. To most of the spectators there
did not seem to be anything the matter with him, but those who were
near enough to see his face, noticed the lines of pain in it, and the
great beads of perspiration which stood out on his forehead.
“By Jove, that’s plucky!” Niles muttered. “It’s the nerviest thing I
ever saw.”
His keen eye had instantly taken in the situation. In some way the Yale
man had strained his ankle, but, instead of giving up the race he was
going to fight it out to the finish.
As Merriwell flashed over the three-quarter mile mark, Stovebridge
had a good twelve feet lead, but was showing signs of exhaustion. His
breath came in gasps, the sweat poured down his face, and his stride
was perceptibly shorter.
The Yale man, on the contrary, was in much better condition, except
for his left leg, which he seemed trying to favor at each step. It was
apparent to everyone, by this time, that he was suffering tortures with
every stride, but he showed no signs of giving up. Instead, to the
amazement of all, he took a fresh spurt and actually began to gain on
his opponent.
Slowly he crept up. Foot by foot the distance between the two was
lessened, until at length it was reduced to a yard. But there was
not enough time. Already the finish was in sight, and the eager
watchers waited in strained silence the end of this amazing race.
Could the gamey fellow from Yale possibly make up those three feet in
the few seconds which remained? They feared not, for almost without
exception, their sympathies were with the man who was now showing such
extraordinary pluck.
There was a final spurt on the part of both men, and then, almost in
the last stride, Stovebridge flung himself forward with uplifted arms,
and breasted the tape a fraction in advance of Dick.
The Clover Club champion had won, but the resulting applause was
strangely feeble. There was scarcely a man present who did not realize
that Merriwell was the better of the two.
As Dick reeled across the line, he staggered and a spasm of pain
flashed into his face.
Jack Niles caught him by the shoulder.
“Quick, Buckhart!” he ripped out in his sharp, decisive tones. “We
must get him into the house and look after that ankle. Good nerve, my
boy--good nerve!”
Merriwell smiled faintly.
“Well, I lost the race for you, Niles!” he said.
“Lost be hanged!” snapped the other. “You’re the gamest piece of work
that ever came down the pike. Why the deuce didn’t you stop when you
twisted your ankle that way?”
“I don’t generally give up when I can still go ahead,” Dick said
quietly.
“Well, you’ve got that foot of yours into a beautiful condition,” Niles
went on. “It’s beginning to swell already. Here, sit down, while we
take you into the house.”
He and Buckhart clasped hands and, lifting Merriwell up between them,
started slowly back toward the clubhouse, the spectators straggling
behind, discussing the result with much interest.
The two fellows carried Dick into the dressing room, where he rested on
a chair while they bathed his ankle in cold water and then bandaged it
as tightly as they could to keep down the swelling.
“How the mischief did you do it, pard?” Buckhart asked, while this was
being done.
“I think I stepped on a small stone,” Dick answered “At least it felt
like that.”
Niles looked up quickly.
“A stone!” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible. I walked over the track an
hour before the race and it was in perfect condition. It couldn’t have
been a stone.”
“Well, it felt like one,” Dick smiled. “I can’t swear to it.”
Niles turned to one of the men who had acted as timekeepers, and who
was helping them with the bandage.
“Say, Johnson, just take a run out to the track and see if you can see
anything of a stone, will you?” he asked. “I want to find out about
this.”
Johnson was back in a few minutes and reported that he could not find
even a pebble on the track. He had questioned the dumb fellow, Hanlon,
who was raking up near the clubhouse, and found that he had not yet
touched anything on the track.
“I must have been mistaken, then,” Dick said lightly. “It was just pure
carelessness.”
He took a shower and then dressed and limped into the reception hall
with Buckhart and Niles, who had waited for him.
A group of men were talking in the centre of the room, and Niles
stepped aside for a moment to speak to one of them, leaving Merriwell
and the Texan standing close beside one of the big windows which opened
on the veranda.
Brose Stovebridge was lounging in a wicker chair just outside, and
as Dick noticed him he saw a look of eager interest flash into the
fellow’s eyes, which were turned toward the drive.
A moment later Fred Marston came in sight, walking rapidly along the
veranda, and presently stopped beside his friend’s chair.
“Well, did you get it?” the latter asked eagerly.
“Sure, I did,” returned Marston with a smile.
He pulled a small parcel wrapped in brown paper out of his pocket and
handed it to Stovebridge, who almost snatched it out of his hand.
“Ah,” he breathed in a tone of relief. “I guess that will settle his
hash. He can suspect all he wants----”
He broke off abruptly as he turned his head and looked into Dick
Merriwell’s cool, slightly smiling eyes. A sudden rush of color flamed
into his face, and, with a quick drawn breath, he half rose from his
chair.
“What’s the matter?” asked Marston.
Then, following the direction of the other’s fascinated gaze, he too,
saw the Yale man, and scowled fiercely.
“Come in and let’s get a drink,” he said abruptly. “I need a bracer.”
Stovebridge got up a little unsteadily, and the two vanished in the
direction of the buffet.
Dick looked significantly at the Texan.
“What do you think of that, Brad?” he asked quietly.
“Huh!” grunted Buckhart contemptuously. “The onery varmit’s sure a
whole lot shy of you, pard. If he isn’t the coyote you’re looking for,
I’ll eat my hat. You hear me gently warble!”
Merriwell gazed thoughtfully out of the window.
“I wonder what was in that package,” he mused. “And I wonder too, where
this Marston comes in.”
“I reckon he’s in the same class as Stovebridge,” the Texan said
emphatically. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw a yearling
by the tail.”
Jack Niles came up briskly at that moment.
“Well, fellows, let’s make ourselves comfortable outdoors,” he said.
“You don’t want to stand on that leg of yours more than you can help
for a while, old chap.”
“It’s feeling pretty comfortable just now,” Dick returned, with a
smile. “Your bandages are all to the good.”
At the same time he was not sorry to sit down in one of the big wicker
chairs, soon becoming the centre of a laughing, joking crowd of men,
all bent on showing their admiration for the Yale athlete who had given
such an exhibition of nerve and pluck as few of them had ever seen.
Merriwell thoroughly enjoyed himself, and was so taken up with the
discussion and talk that he had no time to give to the problem which
he had set himself to solve. At length, as the afternoon wore on, the
fellows began to drop away. One by one, or in parties of two or three,
they left the club in motor cars, runabouts, or on horseback, and by
six o’clock there were only about a dozen left on the veranda, who were
either stopping at the club or taking dinner there.
Then Dick remembered Jim Hanlon, and turned to Buckhart who sat beside
him.
“Say, Brad,” he said in a low tone. “Do you think you could find that
dumb fellow and bring him into the clubhouse? You know I wanted to
straighten him out about who ran over the little girl. He seems to have
an idea that I did it.”
The Texan got up readily.
“Sure thing. He ought to be around somewheres--maybe in the kitchen.”
It was ten minutes before he came back with the announcement that
Hanlon was not to be found. They had told him in the kitchen that the
fellow usually went home at six o’clock.
“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Dick said. “I’ll probably see him
to-morrow.”
Very soon afterward they went in to dinner. Niles and two other men
joined them, and they made a jolly party around a big table in the
middle of the room, which was not so empty after all, quite a number of
people having driven out to the club especially to take dinner there.
Stovebridge and Marston sat at the same table they had occupied at
lunch, and Dick noticed that both seemed to be hitting it up pretty
freely.
The evening being a little chilly, they did not return to the veranda
after dinner, but made themselves comfortable in the reception hall,
where a fire had been lit in the great stone fireplace.
Presently Merriwell remembered that he wanted to call up the Hanlon
farm to find out about the little girl, and, on inquiring, found that
the telephone was in a small room opening out of the hall.
He had no trouble in getting the number, and Mrs. Hanlon herself came
to the telephone. She seemed very much worried and nervous, and told
that the doctor had been there almost all the afternoon. The child’s
arm had been broken and her head badly cut, and, from the symptoms, the
physician was afraid that there was some internal trouble.
“Poor little kid!” Dick muttered as he hung up the receiver. “I
certainly shall do my best to show up the brute who is responsible for
that. He ought to get the maximum penalty, and if she doesn’t pull
through I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”
He opened a door which led directly outside, and stepped out on the
deserted veranda. It was a perfect night, still and rather cool for
that time of year, and, as he looked up at the glittering stars, he
drew a long breath of pure oxygen.
All at once he heard a stealthy footfall behind him, and, half
turning, he caught a glimpse of a crouching figure close upon him.
As he leaped instinctively to one side he felt the impact of a spent
blow on his back. Something sharp pricked his skin.
He whirled around swiftly, only to see a shadowy figure leap from the
end of the veranda and disappear into the darkness.