Frank Merriwell, Juniors, Golden Trail | Page 3

smoothed himself out.
"I was only expounding," explained the red-headed chap, "and now that
the prof isn't around to do it, a substitute has to take hold."
"Pink isn't the only one who has taken a foolish powder," said Merry.

"And, talking about Phineas, what do you suppose the old fossil is up
to?" Clancy went on, just a shade of anxiety sifting into his tones. "It's
four days now, since he suddenly made up his mind to go over Gold
Hill. What did he go for? And why is he staying away? We haven't
heard a word from him since he left."
Merriwell looked serious.
"All that has been bothering me, Clan," he acknowledged "Since we
found the prof in that deserted, mining camp, and helped him file a
location on that mining claim, we're responsible for him, in a way. He
need, looking after, and we have't been on the job at all."
"After you disappeared mysteriously the other night," remarked Clancy,
"Mr. Bradlaugh had an idea that you had gone over to Gold Hill to see
the prof. Mr. Bradlaugh called up the Bristow Hotel, at the Hill, and
talked with Borrodaile. He said he hadn't seen you, on--"
"I know about that," Merry interrupted. "That was four days ago, and
we haven't seen Borrodaile nor had a word from him since. Honest,
fellows, I'm getting worried. Before we started out here this afternoon I
asked Mr. Bradlaugh to try and get the prof on the phone, and to ask
him when he intended coming back to Ophir. Until I hear from dad, in
answer to that letter I sent the night I was taken out to the Bar Z Ranch,
I won't know what we're expected to do with the prof. Meanwhile,
we've got to keep an eye on him. He's the sole owner of a rich mining
claim, and he's about as capable of looking after his interests as a
blanket Indian."
"That's right," assented Clancy. "Borrodaile can tell you all about the
Jurassic Period, and can give you the complete history of the
Neanderthal man from A to Izizard, but I'll guarantee to sell him a gold
brick in five minutes. As for business--well, he doesn't know any more
about ordinary, everyday business than a--er--troglodyte, whatever that
is."
"My dream was about the professor," struck in Ballard.

Merry and Clancy turned at that and gave their chum some attention.
"Come over with it, Pink," said Frank. "There's nothing in the dream, of
course, but the fact that the professor figured in it proves you were
fretting a little on his account yourself."
"Well, it was like this," returned Ballard, glad that the opportunity had
finally come to relieve his mind. "I seemed to be back in that pile of
ruins that used to be Happenchance, the played-out mining camp. From
that claim of the professor's stretched a row of nuggets, clear from the
Picket Post Mountains to Gold Hill. They were big nuggets, too,
running all the way from one the size of my hat to a whole lot as big as
a washtub--"
"Whew!" grinned Clancy. "Go on, Pink; don't mind me."
"The nuggets," proceeded Ballard, frowning at Clancy, "were arranged
like stepping-stones--one here, another a few feet beyond, and another
beyond that, and so on."
"Regular golden trail," laughed Clancy. "That was some dream, Pink."
"The professor," resumed Ballard, "was running along the trail, hat off,
his bald head glimmering in the sun, and the tails of his long coat flying
out behind. Three or four nuggets behind him, running after him as fast
as they could go, were several hard-looking citizens. That's about all.
For three times, now, I've seen the prof chased over that golden trail by
desperadoes. I've never be able to see how the chase came out, for
always, just at the critical moment, I'd wake up. What do you think of
it?"
Before Frank could answer, some one appeared in the clubhouse door,
across the athletic field from the grand stand, and trumpeted
Merriwell's name through his hands.
"Hello!" answered Frank, getting up and shouting.
"Mr. Bradlaugh wants you on the phone," came the answer.

Without delaying, Frank leaped the rail in front of him and sprinted for
the clubhouse. Ballard and Clancy followed, but at a more leisurely
pace.
"That dream of yours, Pink," averred Clancy, on the way across the
field, "was a 'happenchance'--like the old, played-out town we found in
the Picket Posts."
Ballard merely grunted. It was plain that he had his own ideas on the
subject of that dream.
On reaching the clubhouse the two lads found Merry just coming away
from the telephone. His face was clouded, and there was an anxious
light in his eyes.
"What's wrong, Chip?" inquired Clancy.
"Borrodaile isn't in