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Frank Merriwell, Junior's, Golden Trail, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 2. The Telegram From Bloomfield |
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_ CHAPTER II. 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. _ |
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