DICK MERRIWELL WINS.
About ten o’clock next morning Brose Stovebridge and his friend Marston
were sitting together in the latter’s favorite corner of the Clover
Club veranda.
Considering the crowd of the day before, the place seemed deserted.
One man, absorbed in the morning paper, lounged at the far end of the
veranda, and a foursome was just teeing off on the links across the
drive; but otherwise there was no one in sight.
Presently the deaf mute, shouldering a rake, came around the corner of
the house and began to rake up the roadway.
Fred Marston yawned.
“Deuced dull this morning,” he drawled.
“Little early yet for any one to be around,” Stovebridge returned
absently.
He was dressed much as he had been the day before, except that he wore
a cloth cap of medium black and white check, obviously new.
“Cap worked to a charm, didn’t it?” Marston remarked after a moment’s
pause. “I saw Merriwell taking it in when we drove up, and it stumped
him, all right. He’d be surprised to learn that I bought it yesterday
afternoon.”
“Yes, it’s got him guessing all right,” the other answered. “He may
suspect what he likes, but he can’t prove anything on me now.”
Despite the athlete’s assumption of nonchalance, there was an
underlying note of anxiety in his voice which Marston seemed to notice.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” he asked in a peevish tone. “You
ought to be chipper as a lark, and yet I swear you’ve got something on
your mind.”
Stovebridge glanced quickly around, but there was no one within hearing
distance.
“I can’t help worrying about the girl,” he said in a low voice. “I
heard this morning that the doctor was there all night. They’re afraid
of internal complications.”
“That’s too bad, of course,” Marston remarked, without any particular
feeling in his voice. “But I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. You’re
safe, no matter what happens.”
“But if she should die, there’ll be a rigid investigation,” Stovebridge
said slowly. “You can’t tell what they might unearth. The idea makes me
cursed nervous.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t borrow trouble!” the other said sharply. “If
you keep on going around with that long face some one will begin to
smell a rat. All you’ve got to do is to sit tight and say nothing. They
can’t prove anything on you if you only throw a good bluff.”
Neither of them gave a thought to the dumb youth who was raking the
drive some forty feet away. But had Stovebridge seen the ferocious
glare in the dark eyes which were furtively watching him, he would have
been more than disturbed--he would have been seriously alarmed.
Marston yawned again and stretched himself lazily.
“Wish somebody would come around so we could get up a little poker
game,” he remarked. “This sitting here doing nothing is deadly dull.”
Stovebridge arose to his feet with sudden resolution.
“Get your clubs and let’s go around the nine hole course,” he
suggested. “It will do you good.”
“No thanks,” Marston drawled. “I never by any chance enjoy doing the
things that are good for me, and you know I hate golf. Toddle along,
Brose, and I’ll wait here until somebody comes around that has a
sensible idea of amusement.”
Stovebridge shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
“Well, I’ll have to do it alone, then,” he said as he started for the
dressing room for his clubs.
When he returned, a few minutes later, Jim Hanlon had disappeared.
“Aren’t you going to take a caddy?” Marston inquired as his friend
crossed the drive to the first tee.
“No; I’ve only got a few clubs. I can manage without one.”
Marston watched him drive off with a tolerant smile, and when
Stovebridge had disappeared over a knoll, he got up and lounged through
the reception hall to the buffet.
Stovebridge was not playing in good form at all. He drove wretchedly,
his brassy shots were impossible, and even his putting worse than he
had ever known it to be before. Consequently by the time he had holed
in at the fifth green with a score greater by fourteen than ever
before, he was in a furious rage and cursed the clubs, the balls, the
course--everything but himself.
With an effort he pulled himself together and made a fair drive from
the fifth tee. The course was rather winding and along one side was a
thick wood, which had been left quite untouched when the links were
laid out.
As he followed the ball he saw that the wind had taken it close to the
trees, if not in amongst them, and he cursed fiercely again.
When he came up, however, he found that it lay about six feet from the
edge of the wood, and, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he took
his cleek out of the bag and swung it once or twice over his shoulder.
His back was toward the trees, and he did not see the figure which
crept stealthily out of the underbrush.
The next instant there was a rush behind him, something struck him on
the back, and, taken by surprise, the clubman lost his footing and
fell, with Jim Hanlon on top of him, clutching his windpipe with all
the strength in his slim, muscular fingers.
After the first, momentary shock of surprise, Stovebridge struggled
desperately, finally succeeding in tearing the choking fingers from
his throat and struggling to his feet. For a moment he stood silent,
his breath coming in gasps and his eyes full of a great fear, as he
faced the crouching figure before him.
Then, without warning, the clubman snatched up the iron-headed cleek
and, springing forward, struck the other a terrific blow over the head.
Hanlon reeled and collapsed in a silent heap on the ground, blood
smearing his forehead.
For a full minute Stovebridge stood as if turned to stone. His face
was white as chalk, as he gazed in horror-stricken fascination at the
silent thing before him.
Then he passed one shaking hand across his forehead in a dazed manner.
“What have I done?” he muttered in a strange voice. “What have I done?”
His eyes traveled slowly to the blood-stained cleek, and with a shudder
he hurled it from him into the woods.
“I’ve killed him!” he gasped hoarsely. “What shall I do? Where shall I
go?”
Suddenly he raised his head and listened intently. Was that the sound
of voices coming from behind the hill yonder? They must not find him
here. He must fly somewhere--anywhere to get away from that horror on
the ground whose ghastly half-closed eyes seemed to be watching him.
In a panic of fear he snatched up his golf bag and, without a backward
glance, sprang into the woods and disappeared.
Presently the crashing of the flying man through the undergrowth died
away and all was still. A gray squirrel poked his head out of the
bushes and, sighting the huddled heap, fled with chatterings of alarm.
Then came the distant sound of talk and laughter from beyond the hill,
and the next moment a small, white sphere came sailing through the air
and landed with a thud on the turf close to the body of Jim Hanlon.
It was as though the thing had roused him, for with a low moan he
stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.
Following the thud of running feet, some one knelt beside him and
raised his head, and the half-conscious boy found himself gazing into
Dick Merriwell’s eyes, full of compassion and concern.
“Who did it, Jim?” he asked quickly.
Then he suddenly remembered.
“Was it Stovebridge?” he questioned eagerly.
Hanlon nodded weakly.
“Which way did he go?”
The dumb boy shook his head.
“You don’t know?” Dick said disappointedly. “Did you find out anything?
Is he the one who ran over Amy?”
Hanlon nodded, and his eyes took on a faint gleam of rage.
“What’s happened?” asked Jack Niles as he hurried up.
Then he saw the boy’s face.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Somebody hit him! What cur would do a thing
like that?”
The Yale man looked up at him, and his dark eyes were cold and icy.
“Our friend Stovebridge is the man,” he said in a tense voice.
“What?” Niles cried in utter amazement. “Stovebridge! The cowardly
hound! But what reason----”
“I rather think it was because Hanlon found that Stovebridge was the
man who ran over his sister,” Dick explained quietly. “They must have
had an altercation, and this is the result.”
Overcome with amazement, Jack Niles listened to Merriwell’s brief
explanation; and when the Yale man had finished the other’s face was
dark with rage. Roger Clingwood had come up with Buckhart and Tucker in
time to hear it.
“The scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “I’ll have him run out of the club for
this.”
“Out of the club and into jail!” supplemented Niles fiercely. “The
child may die at any moment, I hear.”
“The thing is to catch him,” Clingwood said anxiously. “No doubt after
this, he’s run away.”
Jim Hanlon staggered to his feet with Dick supporting him.
“I think I can catch him,” the Yale man said quietly. “Look after
Hanlon, will you, Brad.”
Buckhart stepped over and took the dumb boy’s arm, and without a word
Merriwell turned and sprang into the woods, Niles following close at
his heels.
Almost at once he found the bloody cleek and, a few feet farther on,
came upon the bag of golf sticks, which Stovebridge had thrown aside in
his haste. Then, with what seemed to Niles almost superhuman skill, the
Yale man picked up the trail of the fleeing scoundrel, and followed it
on a run. His lame ankle was forgotten; he betrayed not the slightest
limp.
To one of Dick’s training, trailing was a comparatively easy matter in
the woods, where broken twigs, bruised leaves, and bent branches of
the bushes marked the way clearly. But when they emerged from among
the trees to the close cropped sward of the links again, he scarcely
lessened his speed. It seemed as though he knew almost by intuition
which way the man had gone.
Very soon Niles fell behind. For all of his condition he was beginning
to be winded, while his companion showed no signs whatever of even
hurried breathing.
Rapidly the distance between them increased as Merriwell forged ahead,
and presently he vanished over a high knoll, leaving Niles to plod on
alone, gasping and breathless, but determined not to give up.
At last he reached the summit and there he paused with an exclamation
of satisfaction.
A perfectly straight stretch of green was spread out before him. It
was over a mile in length, and by far the longest hole of the course.
Though there were several slight undulations, it was for the most part
quite level, being broken here and there with grassy bunkers placed to
make the hole more difficult.
About half way down the stretch a party of golfers had stopped their
play and were staring in astonishment at the strange sight of two young
fellows tearing over the grass as hard as they could run. The one
in advance was Stovebridge, who ran desperately as though his life
depended on it. His face was white and set, his breathing labored, his
eyes full of a great fear.
A hundred yards behind him Dick Merriwell was covering the ground at
an amazing speed. Apparently unhampered by golfing clothes or bandaged
ankle, he ran lightly and easily as though on the cinder track. It
seemed to the excited Niles on the hill top that he almost skimmed over
the ground like a bird.
“Jove, what running!” he cried aloud. “Oh, I wish I had a watch! I
never saw anything like it on the track. There can’t be eighty yards
between them now; he’s gained twenty in a couple of minutes. Stove must
be getting winded. There! What a jump! He took that bunker like a bird.
Stove had to climb over it. What a hurdler he must be! Another five
yards gained.”
For a moment he stood silent, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Another bunker!” he cried presently. “Merriwell is a perfect wonder.
He’s as fresh as when he started. Great Scott! I never saw anything
like this in all my life.”
Niles was fairly jumping up and down in his frenzied excitement.
“Go it! go it!” he cried. “Stove’s all in. Only fifteen yards more. Why
didn’t I bring a watch? He’s making a record! Go it, Dick! Ten yards
more--eight! Oh, why isn’t there somebody else here to see this! He’s
got him! He’s got him!”
Fairly shrieking out the last words, Jack Niles plunged down the
slope, his arms waving like an erratic windmill, and ran toward the
two men who stood together at the far end of the course. One, cool and
fresh, his breath coming a little unevenly, stood with his hand on
the shoulder of the other, who was exhausted to the verge of collapse,
breathing with great gulping gasps, unable to get enough air into his
lungs. His whole frame trembled, and his guilty eyes, unwilling to meet
the stern, accusing ones of the man before him, were fixed upon the
ground.