Frank Merriwell, Juniors, Golden Trail | Page 5

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,