Frank Merriwell, Juniors, Golden Trail

Frank Merriwell, Junior's,
Golden Trail, by

Burt L. Standish This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no
cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give
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Title: Frank Merriwell, Junior's, Golden Trail or, The Fugitive
Professor
Author: Burt L. Standish
Release Date: November 19, 2006 [EBook #19867]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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Produced by Richard T. Halsey

New Tip Top Weekly
No. 11; October 12, 1912.

FRANK MERRIWELL, JUNIOR's, GOLDEN TRAIL; Or, THE
FUGITIVE PROFESSOR.
By BURT L. STANDISH.
CHAPTER I.
DREAMS AND OMENS.
"Look here, you fellows," cried Ballard, "if I don't get this out of my
system I'm going to explode. It will only take a minute or two, and--"
"Go on and explode," cut in Clancy unfeelingly. "Can't you see that
Chip and I are busy?"
"But this dream was a corker, Red, and I--"
"For the love of Mike, Pink, I wish you'd cork. Wait till the work out
there is wound up and then you can--wow! How was that for a tackle,
Chip?"
Three separate and distinct times, there in the grand stand, Billy Ballard
had tried to tell his chums, young Frank Merriwell and Owen Clancy,
of a dream he had the night before. It seemed to have occurred to
suddenly, for the forenoon and part of the afternoon had slipped away
without any attempt on Ballard's part to rehearse the fancies that had
afflicted him in his sleep. But now he was feverishly eager, and the
rebuffs he took from the annoyed Clancy only exasperated him.
It was hardly an opportune moment, however, to talk dreams and
omens. Merry was wrapped up in a practice game of football, and was
alternately scrutinizing players and hastily jotting down notes with a
pencil. Clancy was not making any memoranda, but snappy work on
the gridiron was claiming his full attention. With a sigh of resignation,
Ballard bottled up his remarks and sat back on the hard boards.
Only Merry and his two chums were in the grand stand. The practice
game was between the regular Ophir Athletic Club eleven and a scrub

team. It had been put on for Frank's exclusive benefit.
For two straight years the O. A. C. had gone down to inglorious defeat
before their rivals from Gold Hill--thirty-six to nothing on last
Thanksgiving Day--and the sting of those defeats had made Ophir
pessimistic and their eleven a joke. Another Thanksgiving Day was less
than two months ahead, and the Ophir fellows were turning to
Merriwell for help. They felt that if any one could pick an eleven from
the club members and round them, into winning form, it was he, and he
alone.
This was not the first practice game staged for Merriwell. The first one
had degenerated into a farce, for the spirit of fun had taken untimely
grip of the players and a promising exhibition had gone to pieces on a
reef of horseplay. Spink and Handy, for the club, had waited upon
Merry and tendered apologies, and a second game had been arranged.
Circumstances over which Merry had had little control had kept him
away from that second game; and now, four days later, the Ophir
eleven were gallantly retrieving themselves.
The two teams had ranged themselves across the field, and a scrub foot
had booted the oval well down toward the regulars' goal. A nervous full
back waited to receive that opening kick, while his teammates rushed at
him to form their flying screen of interference. The ball evaded the
arms that reached for it, while another back fell on it and kept it clear of
the clutches of a scrub end.
Frank scrawled a note on the paper that lay on his knee. "That's
Leversee," he remarked, "but I think he'll steady down."
"That scrub end is faster than a streak of greased lightning, Chip,"
commented the admiring Clancy. "Good material, what?"
Presently came the first scrimmage, and a regular half back, all beef
and brawn, went down in a flurry. The scrub defense was like a stone
wall. It was the second down and four yards to gain. The regular
interferers dashed to get around one end of the line, but were flung to
right and left, and the runner, dropped more than a yard short of the

required distance.
The regular full back retreated for a punt. Fast and far the ball sailed
into the scrub field, which proved that the back's feet were not nervous,
no matter if his hands and arms had been a trifle unsteady.
"Bully!" muttered Frank, and scrawled another notation.
The