THE TELEGRAM FROM BLOOMFIELD.
Professor Phineas Borrodaile had for years been an instructor in an
academy in the middle West. His health failing, he was ordered to
Arizona. The dry, invigorating climate had worked wonders in thousands
of cases similar to the professor's, and there was every reason to
believe that the professor would be greatly benefited, if not entirely
cured of his malady.
At the last moment before starting Borrodaile had happened to think of
an old letter from a nephew of his who had been engaged in the mining
business in a camp called Happenchance, in southern Arizona. The
professor looked up the letter. The writer of it had died years before,
and the camp of Happenchance had had its day and was now deserted and
lost among the Picket Post Mountains. What made the letter of especial
interest to the professor was the fact that it gave the location of a
ledge of gold, not far from the old Happenchance placerings.
A bee began buzzing in the professor's bonnet. It was this: He would get
out of the world; in the old, lost camp he would recover his health by
living the primitive life. Also, being next of kin to his late nephew,
he would find and possess himself of the ledge of gold.
Some months after Professor Borrodaile had put his plan into execution,
young Merriwell received a letter from his father, in Bloomfield, rather
mysteriously requesting him to pay a visit to the lost town of the
Picket Posts and to report at length upon anything he might find in the
only habitable building of the camp. Aided by a prospector named Nick
Porter, Frank and his chums visited Happenchance and there found the
professor. They had adventures in helping the professor get his location
notice on file, and only Merry's fleetness of foot and good judgment
saved a prospective bonanza mine for Borrodaile.
Very strangely the professor had left Ophir for Gold Hill not many hours
after he had come with Frank and his friends from Gold Hill to Ophir.
The youngsters were not his guardians, however, and did not feel
authorized to interfere too much in his affairs. Merry thought it best
to go slow in the matter until a reply had been received to the report
which he had sent to his father. Six days or a week would be required in
forwarding a letter to Bloomfield and receiving a letter in reply.
Meanwhile four days had elapsed, and Borrodaile had dropped completely
out of sight.
Knowing the professor to be inexperienced in business affairs, Merriwell
had begun to worry about him. There were unscrupulous men in plenty who
would not hesitate to take advantage of him with the idea of securing
his very valuable mining claim. The telephone message from Mr.
Bradlaugh, therefore, was quite disturbing.
"Ah, ha!" exclaimed Ballard, when Merriwell reported the professor
missing from Gold Hill, "so you think there's nothing in that dream of
mine, eh? This news from Gold Hill shows that it amounts to something."
"What the mischief do you think is going on, Chip?" asked Clancy.
"I'm up in the air and haven't an idea," replied Frank.
"Mr. Bradlaugh asked me to come over to his office in town for a
conference."
"We'll have to hit the golden trail," declared Ballard, "and run it out
to a finish. We've got to be mighty quick about it, too, or there's no
telling what will happen to the old prof."
"Show us your nuggets as big as washtubs, Pink," grinned Clancy, "and
I'm willing to begin to sprint."
"The dream was only a warning. It didn't suggest what we were to do, or
how we're to go about it, but just gives us a hunch that Borrodaile
needs help."
"That's the trouble with dreams--there's too much guesswork about 'em.
If you have one, and something happens that seems to tally with it, why,
you're apt to take it for granted that you had a hunch. I'll bet you've
had thousands of dreams about things that never happened, and yet here
you're picking out one that appears to jibe with the prof's absence from
Gold hill, and trying to make us think it's a warning. Stuff!"
"You're too free with your snap judgments, Red," said Ballard solemnly,
"but wait a while and you'll change your tune."
Merriwell was already on his way out of the clubhouse, Clancy and
Ballard gave up their discussion and hurried after him. The clubhouse
and athletic field were less than a mile from the town of Ophir, and the
three friends were soon jogging along through the sand on their way to
Mr. Bradlaugh's office.
Bradlaugh was president of the O. A. C., and Western representative of
the syndicate that owned the big mine and stamp mill to the south of
town. It was the mine that had made the straggling settlement of Ophir a
possibility.
"It will be at least two days more before I can hear from dad," Merry
remarked, just as they struck into the main street of the "camp," "and
before we interfere too much with the professor I think we ought to
learn from headquarters just how far we ought to go."
"Oh, bother that!" exclaimed Clancy. "If the old boy's in danger, Chip,
we can't hang back waiting to hear from Bloomfield."
"Sure we can't. We're making a guess, though, when we figure that he is
in any sort of trouble. Just because he can't be located is no sign he's
shooting the trouble chutes."
"Yes, it is!" averred Ballard stoutly. "That dream I--"
"Oh, cut out the dreams and forebodings, Pink," broke in Frank, "We're
dealing with facts now and not with a lot of bunk superstitions."
That dream had become Ballard's hobby, and he was in a fair way of
riding it to death. Although he was easy going, and rather lazy when
circumstances gave him the chance to be, yet he straightened suddenly at
Frank's sharp fling at his delusion, and was on the point of flashing a
keen retort. Before he could speak, however, Frank had turned in at
Bradlaugh's office.
Mr. Bradlaugh sat at his desk, smoking a cigar. He welcomed the lads
cordially and waved them to chair.
"What do you think about Borrodaile, Frank?" he asked, coming right down
to the main subject.
"I think," was the prompt answer, "that he has a head that's stuffed
with knowledge--but it's not the sort of knowledge that will help him
hang on to that bonanza mining claim of his."
"My motion to a t, y, ty. He can go back to Caesar's time and tell you
how the old Romans used to do business, but he's as innocent as a babe
in arms about the way business is done in this day and age of the world.
He needs looking after, or some one will get that claim of his for a
song--and then forget the singing part. Have you any idea why he went
back to Gold Hill after he had just come from there."
"No, sir. That was the night"--and a flicker of a smile crossed Merry's
face--"when I went out to the Bar Z Ranch, and before I had left I
didn't know he had gone."
"Hum!" Mr. Bradlaugh sat back in his chair and peered into the vapor
that floated above his head. "Boys," said he, when he finally lowered
his eyes, "I have a feeling that some one is trying to victimize this
professor of yours; in other words, that evil forces are at work to
swindle him out of his claim, or, perhaps, to get it in some way even
more desperate. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but it's the
part of wisdom to consider this matter in the worst light possible, and
then to go to work alon g that line. If we're mistaken in our
conclusions, well and good. Better that, you know, than to think nothing
is wrong, to let matters drift, and then to find that the professor has
been swindled or"--he hesitated--"or that he has disappeared, never to
return."
All three of the boys at that gave a jump of consternation.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Clancy, "you don't have any idea that the
harmless old fossil has been put out of the way?"
"No," was the reply; "and yet there are people who would put him out of
the way, if, by so doing, they could show up with a quitclaim deed to
that wonderfully rich gold mine. If the professor were gone for good,
you see, no one would appear to question the validity of the legal
document. Such things have been done. I mention it in this case merely
as a possibility. Then, again, we have to consider it as a case of mere
swindling The professor, I think, could easily he victimized. My most
hopeful view is this: that Borradaile has simply gone off somewhere,
without any plotters tagging to his heel, and that he will present
himself in due course with the claim still in his possession. It is
best, though, to put the worst construction on his absence; then, if my
last theory proves correct, we shall all be happily disappointed."
Frank drew a deep breath.
"I haven't felt like butting into the prof's affairs too much," said he,
"until I hear from dad."
"I think you're amply warranted in going ahead and looking for him,"
said Bradlaugh.
"Sure. What would you do, Mr. Bradlaugh? Go over to Gold Hill and try to
pick up some clews there?"
"That might be advisable; just at present, however, I have another line
of investigation in mind. I don't suppose you have forgotten Nick
Porter, the old prospector who took you out to the deserted camp in the
Picket Posts?"
Clancy began to laugh.
"It's a cinch," said he, "that we'll never forget old Silent Porter and
his whisky bottle. I suppose he used the fifty dollars Chip paid him to
grubstake himself, and that he's now, in the deserts looking for a
mine?"
"That's what he wanted the fifty for," answered Bradlaugh, "but after he
got it he seems to have delayed going into the hills. Next day after you
lads got back from Happenchance, Porter went to Gold Hill. The spree he
had there on that fifty has been the talk of the town. He's a
disreputable old chap when in his cups, and I'm wondering if he knows
anything about Borrodaile's disappearance."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Merry. "I wouldn't put it past him any. He was with
us when we came back from Happenchance, and I remember now just how he
looked when he saw a sample of the wire-gold ore."
"He was ready to throw a fit," said Ballard, "because he had been all
through the Picket Post range and had never found any gold there. I'll
bet a farm you can nail this thing to Nick Porter."
"Don't be hasty about that," warned Bradlaugh. "It's only a theory, and
I believe every man ought to be considered as honest until he proves
himself otherwise. Porter is merely a subject for investigation, that's
all."
"Then," said Frank promptly, "we'll go over to Gold Hill this very night
and begin investigating him."
"You won't have to go to Gold Hill. I've heard from our super at the
mine that Porter returned here this afternoon, looking a good deal the
worse for wear. After supper you can visit the mine and have a talk with
the prospector. You'll know what angle to give your investigations,
Merriwell."
"But he may pull out for the hills while we're delaying here in town!"
"He'll have to get money for another grubstake before he goes any more
prospecting. Even if he has the money--which is hardly possible--the
super, on my orders, will delay him if he tries to leave."
Here was a sample of Mr. Bradlaugh's thoughtfulness which Merry deeply
appreciated.
"We'll be at the mine this evening, Mr. Bradlaugh," said he, "and if
Porter knows anything about the professor's absence, we'll do our best
to find out what it is."
"My car would be at your disposal, but just now it's in the repair
shop," went on Mr. Bradlaugh. "There are a couple of motor cycles at the
mine, though, if you find it necessary to go anywhere in a hurry. Pardo,
the super, will be glad to let you take the machines."
Frank thanked Mr. Bradlaugh for the offer, and started to leave.
"Just a moment," said the older man. "How did the boys shape up in the
practice game?"
"Fine!" Merriwell answered.
"I suppose after you have located the professor and extricated him from
any troubles he may have fallen into, you'll do your best to give us an
eleven that will make the Gold Hillers eat crow instead of turkey for
Thanksgiving?"
There was a twinkle in Mr. Bradlaugh's eyes as he spoke.
"I'll do what I can, Mr. Bradlaugh," Merry answered; "you may depend on
that."
"I am depending on it. It seems to me that the son of the greatest
baseball pitcher and football half back Yale ever produced is well
qualified to give Ophir a winning eleven. Good luck to you and your
friends, Merriwell. Wind tip this business of the professor's as soon as
you can and then get back on the football job. If I can help you in any
way, call on me."
As Frank, after murmuring further thanks, was about to step through the
office door, Woo Sing, roustabout Chinaman at the Ophir House, stepped
up on the porch with a yellow envelope in his hand.
"Whoosh!" gabbled Woo Sing, his parchmentlike face splitting in a wide
grin, "my lookee fo' you, Missul Melliwell."
"Is that telegram for me?" demanded Frank.
"Allee same," answered the Chinaman, passing it over.
Frank tore open the envelope and read the message then, with a long
whistle, he returned to put it in Mr. Bradlaugh's hands. Mr. Bradlaugh
read as follows:
"FRANK MERRIWELL, JUNIOR, Care Ophir House, Ophir, Ariz., via Gold Hill:
"Good work! Watch Borradaile carefully. Don't let him out of your
sight. Important. Letter on the way.
"YOUR FATHER."
Mr. Bradlaugh also gave a long whistle as he sank back in his chair
thoughtfully and with the message in his hand.