Dick Merriwell's Aëro Dash E-Book

Burt L. Standish

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A glorious midsummer morning, clear, balmy and bracing. An ideal stretch of macadam, level as a floor and straight as a die for close onto two miles, with interminable fields of waving wheat on either side. A new, high-power car in perfect running order.
It was a temptation for speeding which few could resist, certainly not Brose Stovebridge, who was little given to thinking of the consequences when his own pleasure was concerned, and who had a reputation for reckless driving which was exceeded by none.
With a shout of joy, he snatched off his cap and flung it on the seat beside him. The next instant he had opened the throttle wide and advanced the spark to the last notch. The racing roadster leaped forward like a thing alive and shot down the stretch—cut-out wide open and pistons throbbing in perfect unison—a blurred streak of red amidst a swirling cloud of dust.

Leseprobe

Dick Merriwell’s Aëro Dash

OR WINNING ABOVE THE CLOUDS

By BURT L. STANDISH

1910

© 2021 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383831549

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. THE CATASTROPHE.

CHAPTER II. THE COWARD.

CHAPTER III. A SCRAP OF PAPER.

CHAPTER IV. STOVEBRIDGE FINDS AN ALLY.

CHAPTER V. THE STRUGGLE IN THE DARK.

CHAPTER VI. DICK MERRIWELL WINS.

CHAPTER VII. THE BRAND OF FEAR.

CHAPTER VIII. THE YOUNG MAN IN TROUBLE.

CHAPTER IX. A DISGRUNTLED PITCHER.

CHAPTER X. IN DOLAN’S CAFÉ.

CHAPTER XI. THE EXPLOSION.

CHAPTER XII. THE GAME BEGINS.

CHAPTER XIII. AGAINST HEAVY ODDS.

CHAPTER XIV. THREE MEN OF MILLIONS.

CHAPTER XV. THE MYSTERIOUS MR. RANDOLPH.

CHAPTER XVI. THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.

CHAPTER XVII. IN THE SHADOW OF THE CLIFFS.

CHAPTER XVIII. BERT HOLTON, SPECIAL OFFICER.

CHAPTER XIX. THE RACE IN THE CLOUDS.

CHAPTER XX. THE OUTLAWS.

CHAPTER XXI. DICK MERRIWELL’S FIST.

CHAPTER XXII. ALL ARRANGED.

CHAPTER XXIII. CHESTER ARLINGTON’S MOTHER.

CHAPTER XXIV. TWO INDIAN FRIENDS.

CHAPTER XXV. THE MAN IN THE NEXT ROOM.

CHAPTER XXVI. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.

CHAPTER XXVII. SHANGOWAH’S BACKERS.

CHAPTER XXVIII. BATTED OUT.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE FINISH. 

DICK MERRIWELL’S AËRO DASH.

CHAPTER I.THE CATASTROPHE.

A glorious midsummer morning, clear, balmy and bracing. An ideal stretch of macadam, level as a floor and straight as a die for close onto two miles, with interminable fields of waving wheat on either side. A new, high-power car in perfect running order.

It was a temptation for speeding which few could resist, certainly not Brose Stovebridge, who was little given to thinking of the consequences when his own pleasure was concerned, and who had a reputation for reckless driving which was exceeded by none.

With a shout of joy, he snatched off his cap and flung it on the seat beside him. The next instant he had opened the throttle wide and advanced the spark to the last notch. The racing roadster leaped forward like a thing alive and shot down the stretch—cut-out wide open and pistons throbbing in perfect unison—a blurred streak of red amidst a swirling cloud of dust.

Stovebridge bent over the wheel, his eyes shining with excitement and his curly, blond hair tossed by the cutting wind into a disordered mass above his rather handsome face. The speedometer hand was close to the fifty mark.

“You’ll do, you beauty,” he muttered exultingly. “I could squeeze another ten out of you, if I had the chance.”

The horn shrieked a warning as he pulled her down to take the curve ahead, but her momentum was so great that she shot around the wide swerve almost on two wheels, with scarcely any perceptible slackening.

The next instant Stovebridge gave a gasping cry of horror.

Directly in the middle of the road stood a little girl. Her eyes were wide and staring, and she seemed absolutely petrified with fright.

The car swerved suddenly to one side, there was a grinding jar of the emergency and the white, stricken face vanished. With a sickening jolt, the roadster rolled on a short distance and stopped.

For a second or two Stovebridge sat absolutely still, his hands trembling, his face the color of chalk. Then he turned, as though with a great effort, and looked back.

The child lay silent, a crumpled, dust-covered heap. The white face was stained with blood, one tiny hand still clutched a bunch of wild flowers.

The man in the car gave a shuddering groan.

“I’ve killed her!” he gasped. “My God, I’ve killed her!”

He would be arrested—convicted—imprisoned. At the thought every bit of manhood left him and fear struck him to the soul. He knew that every law, human or divine, bound him to pick up the child and hurry her to a doctor, for there might still be a spark of life which could be fanned into flame. But he was lost to all sense of humanity, decency, or honor. Maddened by the fear of consequences, his one impulse was to fly—fly quickly before he was discovered.

In a panic he threw off the brakes, started the car and ran through his gears into direct drive with frantic haste. The car leaped forward, and, without a backward glance at the victim of his carelessness, Stovebridge opened her up wide and disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

The child lay still where she had fallen. Slowly the dust settled and a gentle breeze stirred the flaxen hair above her blood-stained face.

Then came the throbbing of another motor approaching, a deep-toned horn sounded, and a big, red touring car, containing four young fellows, rounded the bend at a fair speed.

Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale athlete, was at the wheel, and, catching sight of the little heap in the roadway, he stopped the car with a jerk and sprang out.

As he ran forward and gathered the limp form into his arms, he gave an exclamation of pity. Then his face darkened.

“By heavens!” he cried. “I’d like to get my hands on the man who did this. Poor little kid! Just look at her face, Brad.”

As Brad Buckhart, Dick’s Texas chum, caught sight of the great gash over the child’s temple, his eyes flashed and he clenched his fists.

“The coyote!” he exploded. “He certain ought to have a hemp necktie put around his neck with the other end over a limb. I’d sure like to have a hold of that other end. You hear me talk!”

Squeezing past the portly form of Bouncer Bigelow, Tommy Tucker leaned excitedly out of the tonneau.

“Is she dead, Dick?” he asked anxiously.

Merriwell took his fingers from the small wrist he had been feeling.

“Not quite,” he said shortly. “But it’s no thanks to the scoundrel who ran her down and left her here.”

His eyes, which had been looking keenly to right and left, lit up as they fell upon the roof of a farm house nestling among some trees a little way back from the road.

“There’s a house, Brad,” he said in a relieved tone. “Even if she doesn’t belong there, they’ll make her comfortable and send for a doctor.”

With infinite tenderness he carried the child down the road a little way to a gate, and thence up a narrow walk bordered with lilac bushes. The door of the farm house was open and, without hesitation, he walked into the kitchen, where a woman stood ironing.

“I found——” he began.

The woman turned swiftly, and as she saw his burden, her face grew ghastly white and her hands flew to her heart.

“Amy!” she gasped in a choking voice. “Is—she——”

“She’s not dead,” Dick reassured her, “but I’m afraid she’s badly hurt. I picked her up in the road outside. Some one in a car had run over her and left her there.”

For an instant he thought the woman was going to faint. Then she pulled herself together with a tremendous effort.

“Give her to me!” she cried fiercely, her arms outstretched. “Give her to me!”

Her eyes were blinded with a sudden rush of tears.

“Little Amy, that never did a bit o’ harm to nobody,” she sobbed. “Oh, it’s too much!”

“Careful, now,” Merriwell cautioned. “Take her gently. I’m afraid her arm is broken.”

“Would you teach a woman to be gentle to her child?” she cried wildly.

Without waiting for a reply, she gathered the little form tenderly into her arms and laid her down on a sofa which stood at one side of the room. Then running to the sink for some water, she wet her handkerchief and began to wipe off the child’s face.

“You mustn’t mind what I said,” she faltered the next moment. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just wild.”

“I know,” Dick returned gently. “A doctor should be called at——”

“Of course!”

She sprang to her feet and flew into another room, whence Dick heard the insistent ringing of a telephone bell, followed quickly by rapid, broken sentences. As the handkerchief fell from her hand he had picked it up and was sprinkling the child’s face with water.

Presently the girl gave a little moan and opened her eyes.

“Mamma,” she said faintly—“mamma!”

The woman ran into the room at the sound.

“Here I am, darling,” she said, as she knelt down by the couch. “Where do you feel bad, Amy dear?”

“My arm,” the child moaned, “and my head. A big red car runned right over me.”

“Red!” muttered Merriwell, his eyes brightening.

“My precious!” soothed the mother. “The doctor’ll be here right off. Does it hurt much?”

The child closed her eyes and slow tears welled from under the lashes.

“Yes,” she sobbed, “awful.”

Dick ground his teeth.

“It’s a crime for such men to be allowed on the road,” he said in a low, tense tone. “I’m going to do my level best to run down whoever was responsible for this, and if I do, they’ll suffer the maximum penalty.”

“I hope you do,” the woman declared fiercely. “Hanging’s too good for ’em! My husband, George Hanlon, ain’t the man to sit still an’ do nothing, neither.”

“They—wasn’t—men,” sobbed the child. “Only one.”

“One man in a red car of some sort,” Dick murmured thoughtfully. “He must belong around here; a fellow wouldn’t be touring alone.”

Then he turned to Mrs. Hanlon.

“I think I’ll be getting on,” he said quickly. “I can’t do anything here, and the longer I delay the less chance there’ll be of catching this fellow. I’ll call you up to-night and find out how the little girl is doing.”

“God bless you for what you’ve done,” the woman said brokenly.

“I wish it might have been more,” Dick answered as he walked quickly toward the door. “Good-by.”

As he hurried out he almost ran into a slim young fellow, who was running up the walk. He was bare-headed, and his long black hair straggled down over a pair of fierce black eyes that had a touch of wildness in them.

Catching sight of Dick he glared at the Yale man, and hesitated for an instant as if he meant to stop him. Then, with a curious motion of his hands, he brushed past Merriwell and disappeared into the house.

“I’ve found a clue, pard,” Buckhart announced triumphantly, as Dick reached the car.

“What is it?”

The Texan held up a cloth cap.

“Picked it up by the side of the road,” he explained. “Find the owner of that and you’ll sure have the onery varmit who did this trick. You hear me gently warble!”

Dick took it in his hand and turned it over. The stuff was a small black and white check and was lined with gray satin. Stamped in the middle of the lining was the name of the dealer who had sold it:

“Jennings, Haberdasher, Wilton.”

Wilton was a good-sized town they had passed through about four miles back.

“I thought he belonged around here,” Merriwell said as he rolled up the cap and stuffed it into his pocket. “Look out for a fellow without a hat, alone, in a red car of some sort, Brad. That’s all we’ve got to go by at present, but I shouldn’t wonder if it would be enough.”

He stepped into the car and started the engine, Brad sprang up beside him and they were off.

They had not gone a hundred feet when the black haired youth rushed out of the gate to the middle of the road. His eyes flashed fire, and as he saw the car moving rapidly away from him his mouth moved and twisted convulsively as if he wanted to shout, but could not.

Then, as the touring car disappeared around a turn in the road, he clenched one fist and shook it fiercely in that direction. The next moment he was following it as hard as he could run.

CHAPTER II.THE COWARD.

With pallid face and nervous, twitching fingers, which his desperate grip on the wheel scarcely served to hide, Brose Stovebridge flew along the high road between Wilton and the Clover Country Club.

Now and then he looked back fearfully; at every crossroad his eyes darted keenly to right and left, as he let out the car to the very highest speed he dared, hoping and praying that he might reach his goal without encountering any one.

All the time fear—deadly, unreasoning, ignoble fear—was tugging at his heart-strings.

He had gone through just such an experience as this little more than a year ago in Kansas City. How vividly it all came back to him! The unexpected meeting with two old school chums whom he had not seen in months; their hilarious progress of celebration from one café to another, which ended, long past midnight, in that wild joy ride through the silent, deserted streets.

He shuddered. He thought he had succeeded in thrusting from his mind the details of it all: The sudden skidding around a corner on two wheels; the man’s face that flashed before them in the electric light, dazed—white—terrified. The thud—the fall—the sickening jolt, as the wheels went over him. Then that wild, unreasoning, terror-stricken impulse to fly, to escape the consequences at any cost, which possessed him. He gave no thought to his unconscious victim. He only wanted to get away before any one came, and somehow he had done so.

A few days later, in the safe seclusion of his home near Wilton, when he read that the fellow had succumbed to his injuries in the Kansas City hospital, his first thought was one of self-congratulation at his own cleverness in eluding pursuit.

His two chums he had never seen since that morning. Only a few weeks ago one of them had declined an invitation to visit him. He wondered why.

Once in his prep school days, when the dormitory caught fire, he had stumbled blindly down the fire escape and left his roommate sleeping heavily. Luckily the boy was roused in time; but it was no thanks to Brose that he escaped with his life.

For Stovebridge was a coward. In spite of his handsome face and dashing manner; in spite of his popularity, his athletic prowess, his many friends—in spite of all, he was a moral coward.

Few suspected it and still fewer knew, for the fellow was constantly on his guard and clever at hiding this unpleasant trait. But it was there just the same, ready to leap forth in a twinkling, as it had done this morning, and stamp his face with the brand of fear.

As the great, granite gateposts of the club appeared in sight, Stovebridge breathed a sigh of relief. By some extraordinary luck he had encountered no one on his wild ride thither. He had passed several crossroads, any one of which he was prepared to swear he had come by, and for the present he was safe.

Slowing down, he turned into the drive, and as he did so he took out a handkerchief and passed it over his moist forehead. He must compose himself before encountering any of his fellow members.

He carefully smoothed his ruffled hair with slim, brown fingers, and reached over for his cap.

The seat was empty. The cap had disappeared.

The discovery was like a physical blow, and for an instant his heart stood still.

Where had he lost it?

The spot where he had run down the child was the only feasible one. The cap must have fallen out when he put on the emergency, and probably lay in plain sight, a clue for the first passerby to pick up.

For a moment he had a wild idea of going back for it, but he thrust this from him instantly. It was impossible.

Then the clubhouse came in sight. He must pull himself together at once; he would get something to steady his nerves before he met any one.

Instead of continuing on to the front of the clubhouse, where a crowd was congregated on the wide veranda, he turned sharply to the right and drove his car into one of the open sheds back of the kitchen. Then he dived through a side door into the buffet.

“Whisky, Joe,” he said nervously to the attendant.

A bottle, glass and siphon were placed before him, and even the taciturn Joe was somewhat astonished at the size of the drink which Stovebridge poured with shaking hand and drained at a swallow.

He followed it with a little seltzer and, pouring out another three fingers, sat back in his chair and took out a gold cigarette case.

As he selected a cigarette with some care, and held it to the cigar lighter on the table, he noticed with satisfaction that his fingers scarcely trembled at all.

“That’s the stuff to steady a fellow’s nerves,” he muttered, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke. “There’s nothing like it.”

He took a swallow and then drained the glass for the second time.

Presently his view of life became slightly more optimistic.

“It was a new cap,” he remembered with a sudden feeling of relief.

“I’ve never worn it here, and there’s an old one in my locker. All I’ve got to do is to swear I never saw it before if I’m asked about it—which isn’t likely.”

When the cigarette was finished he went into the dressing room and took a thorough wash. There was no one there but the valet, who gave his clothes a good brushing, so he had no trouble in getting the old cap out of his locker and placing it at a becoming angle on his freshly brushed hair. Then he strolled out onto the veranda.

Three or four fellows, lounging near the door, greeted him jovially as he appeared.

“Rather late, aren’t you, Brose?” one of them remarked, as he joined them.

“A little,” Stovebridge returned nonchalantly. “It was such a bully morning I took a spin along the river road.”

“Alone?” the other asked slyly.

Stovebridge laughed.

“Well, I happened to be—this time,” he answered, a little self-consciously.

Being very much of a lady’s man, it was rare for him to be unaccompanied.

“How I do love a hog!” drawled one of the fellows who had not spoken. “Why the deuce didn’t you ’phone me? I’ve been sitting here bored to death for two solid hours.”

Stovebridge was looking curiously at a big, red touring car which had just driven up to the entrance.

“Er—I beg pardon, Marston,” he stammered. “What did you say?”

“Really not worth repeating,” returned the other languidly. “You seem to have something on your mind, Brose.”

Stovebridge gave a slight start as he turned back to his friends.

“I was wondering who those fellows are that just drove up,” he said carelessly. “They’re talking to old Clingwood.”

Fred Marston turned with an effort and surveyed the newcomers.

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” he drawled sinking back in his chair. “Never saw them before.”

For some reason the strangers seemed to interest Stovebridge extremely, and he continued to watch them furtively. There were four of them. The one who had driven the car, and with whom Roger Clingwood was doing the most talking, was tall and handsome, with dark hair and eyes, and the figure of an athlete. The fellow who stood near him was good-looking, too, and much more heavily built. Behind them, a short, wiry youth was talking to a tremendously stout fellow with a fat, good-humored face.

Presently Stovebridge left his friends and wandered along the veranda, pausing now and then to exchange a remark with some acquaintance, and before long he had reached the vicinity of the strangers, where he leaned carelessly against a pillar and looked out across the golf links.

“Very glad you could get here this morning, Merriwell,” Roger Clingwood, an old Yale graduate was saying. “You’ll be able to look around a bit before the race this afternoon.”

“Merriwell!” exclaimed Stovebridge under his breath. “I wonder if that can be Dick Merriwell, of Yale.”

Suddenly a hand struck him on the shoulder and a voice exclaimed heartily:

“Hello, Brose, old boy! Wearing your old brown cap, I see. What’s the matter with the one you got at the governor’s shop yesterday?”

Stovebridge wheeled around with a sudden tightening of his throat and saw the grinning face of Bob Jennings, son of the haberdasher at Wilton, who had been in the store when he bought that wretched cap the day before. Here was the first complication.

Stovebridge forced himself to smile.

“Left it at home, Bob,” he returned carelessly. “This was the first one I picked up as I came out this morning.”

In the pause which followed Roger Clingwood stepped forward.

“I didn’t notice you were here, Stovebridge,” he said pleasantly. “I’d like you to meet my friend Merriwell, who has come up with some of his classmates to spend a day or two at the club.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” Stovebridge said with an air of good fellowship. “I know Mr. Merriwell very well by reputation, but have never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

“Dick, this is Brose Stovebridge,” Clingwood went on. “We claim for him—and I think justly—the title of champion sprinter of the middle West.”

Merriwell smiled as he held out his hand.

“Very glad indeed to meet you, Mr. Stovebridge,” he said heartily.

Stovebridge gave a sudden gasp and faltered; then he took the proffered hand limply.

“Glad to meet you,” he said hoarsely.

Instead of meeting Merriwell’s glance, his eyes were fixed intently on the corner of a checked cap which protruded from the Yale man’s pocket.

It was the cap he had lost out of the car that morning, or one exactly like it. Apparently it did not belong to Merriwell, who held his own in his left hand. Where had he picked it up? Where could he have found it but in that fatal spot? Stovebridge’s brain reeled and he felt a little faint. Then he realized that Clingwood was speaking to him—introducing the other Yale men—and with a tremendous effort he forced himself to turn and greet them with apparent calmness.

For a time there was a confused medley of talk and laughter as some of the other members strolled up and were presented to the strangers. Stovebridge was very thankful for the chance it gave him to pull himself together and hide his emotion.

Presently there was a momentary lull and Dick pulled the cap out of his pocket.

“Does this belong to any of your fellows?” he asked carelessly. “We picked it up in the road this morning.”

Bob Jennings pounced on it.

“Why, that looks like yours, Brose,” he said as he turned it over.

Stovebridge glanced at it indifferently. He had himself well in hand now.

“Rather like,” he drawled; “but mine is a little larger check; besides, I didn’t wear it this morning, you know.”

“I could have sworn that you bought one exactly like this,” Jennings said in a puzzled tone.

Stovebridge laughed.

“I wouldn’t advise you to put any money on it, Bob, because you’d lose,” he said lightly. “I’ll wear mine to-morrow, and you’ll see the difference.”

“Where did you find it, Dick?” Roger Clingwood asked.

Merriwell paused and glanced quietly around the circle of men. Most of them looked indifferent, as though they had very little interest in the cap or its unknown owner.

“It was picked up in the road about four miles this side of Wilton,” he said in a low, clear voice. “It lay near the body of a little girl who had been run over by some car and left there to die.”

There was a sudden, surprised hush, and then a perfect volley of questions were flung at the Yale man.

“Where was it?”

“Who was she?”

“Didn’t any one see it done?”

“Is she dead?”

The expression of languid indifference vanished from their faces with the rapidity and completeness of chalk under a wet sponge. Their eyes were full of eager interest, and, as soon as the clamor was quelled, Dick told the story with a brief eloquence which made more than one man curse fiercely and blink his eyes.

Once or twice the Yale man darted a keen glance at Stovebridge, but the latter had turned away so that only a small portion of his face was visible. He seemed to be one of the few to remain unmoved by the recital.

Another was his friend Fred Marston, a man of about thirty, with thin, dark hair plastered over a low forehead, sensuous lips, and that unwholesome flabbiness of figure which is always a sign of a life devoted wholly to ease.

As Dick finished the story, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very likely she ran out in front of the car, and was bowled over before the fellow had time to stop,” he drawled. “Children are always doing things like that. Sometimes I believe they do it on purpose.”

Merriwell looked at him fixedly.

“That’s quite possible,” he said quietly, but with a certain challenging note in his voice. “But no one but a coward—a contemptible coward—would have run off and left her there.”

Marston flushed a little and started to reply, but before he could utter a word, a number of the club members began to voice their opinions, and for a time the talk ran fast and furious.

Merriwell noticed that Stovebridge took no part in it. He stood leaning against a pillar, his hands in his pockets, apparently absorbed in watching a putting match which was going on at a green just across the drive.

Presently the Yale man strolled over to his side.

“Nice links you have here,” he commented.

Stovebridge nodded silently without taking his eyes from the players.

“You have a car, haven’t you,” Dick went on casually.

The other’s shoulders moved a little.

“Yes,” he answered. “Racing roadster—sixty horse-power.”

There was a curious glitter in Dick Merriwell’s dark eyes.

“Dark red, isn’t she?” he queried.

Stovebridge hesitated for an instant.

“Ye-s.”

The players had finished their game and were coming slowly toward the clubhouse, but Stovebridge’s eyes never left the vivid patch of close-cropped turf.

He was afraid to look up, afraid to meet the glance of the man beside him. He dreaded the sound of the other’s low, clear voice. Why was he asking these questions? Why, indeed, unless he suspected?

“You didn’t happen to run over the main road from Wilton this morning, I suppose?”

The guilty man could not suppress a slight start. It had come, then. Merriwell did suspect him. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and for a moment he was speechless. He moistened his dry lips.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I came—by the river road.”

What was the matter with him? That did not sound like his voice. It was not the way an innocent man would have answered an unmistakable innuendo. If he did not pull himself together instantly he would be lost.

The next moment he turned on the Yale man.

“Why do you ask that?” he said almost fiercely. “What do you mean by such a question?”

His face was calm, though a little pale. His long lashes drooped purposely over the blue eyes to hide the fear which filled them.

Merriwell looked at him keenly.

“I thought perhaps we could fix the time of the accident, if you had gone over the road before me,” he said quietly. “But I see we cannot.”

He turned away, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, and joined the others.

Brose Stovebridge gave a shiver as he saw him go. He had the desperate feeling of going to pieces; unless he could steady his nerves he felt that in a very few minutes he would give himself away.

Without a word to any one, he slipped through the big reception hall of the clubhouse and thence to the buffet. Here he tossed off another drink and then hurried out the side door.

The attendant looked after him with a shake of his head.

“He’s got something on his mind, he has,” he muttered. “Never knew him to take so much of a morning—and the very day he’s going to run, too.”

Stovebridge walked over to the automobile sheds. He was not likely to be disturbed there, and if some one did come around he could pretend to be fussing with his car.

He scarcely noticed Merriwell’s touring car, which had been put into the shed next to his own. At another time he would have examined it with interest, for he was a regular motor fiend. But now he passed it with a glance, and going up to his own car, lifted up the hood and leaned over the cylinders.

He had not been there more than a minute or two when he felt a hand grasp his shoulder firmly.

With a snarl of terror, he straightened up and whirled around.

He had expected to find Merriwell, come to accuse him. Instead, he saw before him Jim Hanlon, a deaf mute, who occasionally did odd jobs around the club. The fellow’s face was distorted with rage, his eyes flashed fire, his slight frame fairly quivered with emotion.

Stovebridge stepped back instinctively.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked harshly. “What are you doing here?”

As the clubman spoke the deaf mute’s eyes were fixed upon his lips. Evidently he understood what the other said, for his own mouth writhed and twisted in his desperate, futile efforts to give voice to his emotion.

The next instant he snatched a scrap of soiled brown paper from his pocket and produced the stub of a pencil.

Stovebridge watched him with a vague uneasiness as he scrawled a few words and then thrust the paper into the clubman’s hand.

“Somebudy run over Amy an kill her.”

As he deciphered the illiterate sentence, Stovebridge shivered. Until that moment he had forgotten that this fellow was the child’s brother. What was he about to do? He looked as though he were capable of anything. Above all, how much did he know?

Looking up, Brose met the fellow’s eyes fixed fiercely on his own. He shivered again.

“Yes,” he said, with an effort at calmness. “I heard about it. It’s too bad.”

As the words left his lips he realized their utter inadequacy.

With a scowl, Hanlon snatched the paper from his hands and wrote again.

“I’ll kill the man that did it—kill him!”

The word kill was heavily underlined in a pitiful attempt at emphasis.

As Stovebridge read the short line he felt a cold chill going down his back. He had not the slightest doubt that the fellow meant what he had written. But how had he found out? Who had told him? Was it possible that he could have witnessed the accident from some place out of sight?

He shot another glance at Hanlon and met the same malignant glare of hate. The fellow looked positively murderous.

The next moment the deaf mute had pulled a long, keen knife out of his pocket, which he held up before Stovebridge’s terror-stricken eyes and shook it significantly. At the same time he nodded his head fiercely.

Brose gave a low gasp as he gazed at the wicked blade with fascinated horror. Why had he ever come out here alone and given the fellow this chance? Why hadn’t he stayed with the others? No matter what else might have happened, he would have been safe. Arrest, conviction, disgrace—anything would have been better than this.

Overcome by a momentary faintness, he closed his eyes.

Suddenly the paper was twitched from his fingers, and, with a frightened gasp, he looked up.

The knife had disappeared and Hanlon was writing, again.

Desperately, as a drowning man clutches a straw, Stovebridge snatched at the paper.

“What’s the name of the feller that came with three others in that car.”

Puzzled, the clubman looked at Hanlon and found him pointing at Dick Merriwell’s touring car. What did he mean? What could he want with Merriwell? Was it possible that he did not really know—that he wanted to get proof from the Yale man before proceeding with his murderous attack?

“Why do you want to know?” he faltered.

The other seized the paper from the man’s trembling fingers, wrote three words and thrust it back.

“He killed Amy.”

As Stovebridge read the short sentence, he could have shouted with joy. Hanlon did not know the truth, after all. For some unaccountable reason he suspected Merriwell. Perhaps it was because the Yale man had carried the child into the house; anyhow it did not matter, so long as he himself was safe.

Then another thought flashed into his mind. The fellow suspected Merriwell—not only suspected, but was convinced. He would try to kill the Yale man, and perhaps succeed. Well, what of that? With Merriwell out of the way Stovebridge would be safe—quite safe. No one else had the slightest suspicion.

He took the pencil out of the deaf mute’s hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation wrote, on the bottom of the paper:

“His name is Dick Merriwell.”

Somehow, as he handed the paper to the wild-eyed youth, he had the odd feeling that he had signed a death warrant.

CHAPTER III.A SCRAP OF PAPER.

The Clover Country Club had acquired a wider reputation than is usual with an organization of that description.

Intended originally as a simple athletic club, with out-of-door sports and games the special features, it had one of the finest golf links in the Middle West. Its tennis courts were unsurpassed, its running track unrivaled. There was a well-laid-out diamond which had been the scene of many a hot game of baseball, and which was used in the fall for football. Indoors were bowling alleys, billiard, and pool tables, a beautiful swimming tank in a well-equipped gymnasium.

But in the course of time other and less desirable features had been added. The younger set had developed into a rather fast, sporting crowd, and, slowly increasing in numbers and in power, they gradually crowded the old conservatives to the wall, until finally they controlled the management.

To-day the club was better known for the completeness of its buffet, than for the gymnasium; and it was a well-known fact that frequently more money changed hands in the so-called private card room in a single night than in the old days had been won or lost on sporting bets in the course of an entire season.

In spite of all this, however, out-of-door sports were still a feature, and now and then, when some especially well-known athletes were at the club, matches and contests of various kinds were arranged.

That very afternoon a mile race had been planned between Stovebridge and Charlie Layton—a Columbia graduate reported to have beaten everything in his class from Chicago to Omaha—who was coming on from the latter city especially for the occasion.

Fred Marston and others of his ilk usually did a great deal of sneering at such affairs, calling them farcical relics of barbarism, and made it plain that they only attended for the excitement of betting on the result; but this made little difference in the general enthusiasm.

For a time after the departure of Stovebridge the discussion of Merriwell’s story continued with some warmth, and many were the speculations as to the identity of the brute who had run over the child and left her there. But even that topic could not hold the interest of such a crowd of men for very long, and presently they began to disperse, some seeking the card room, others the buffet, while the remainder found comfortable seats on the veranda to put in the hour before luncheon in indolent lounging and small talk.

Roger Clingwood hesitated an instant before the wide doors of the reception hall.

“It’s too late for golf or tennis,” he said regretfully. “Is there anything else you would like to do before lunch? Er—cards, perhaps, or——”

He was one of the older members who had fought vigorously, but in vain, against the introduction of gambling in the club; but his innate sense of hospitality made him suggest the only form of amusement possible in the short time.

Dick smiled.

“Not for me, thank you,” he said quickly. “It always seems a waste of time to sit around a table in a stuffy room when you might be doing something interesting outside.”

Clingwood’s face brightened.

“I’m glad of that,” he said warmly. “I enjoy a good rubber as well as the next man, but I don’t like the kind of play that goes on here. How do your friends feel about it?”

He looked inquiringly at the others.

“Nix,” Buckhart said decidedly. “Not for me.”

Tucker and Bigelow both shook their heads.

“I used to flip the pasteboards in my younger days,” the former grinned; “but I’ve reformed.”

“Why not just sit here and do nothing?” Merriwell asked. “I feel that I’d enjoy an hour’s loaf.”

Bigelow evidently agreed with him, for he sank instantly into one of the wicker chairs, with a sigh of thankfulness.

The others followed his example, and their host took out a well-filled cigar case and passed it around. Tucker accepted one; the others declined.

“Layton ought to show up soon,” Clingwood remarked, settling back in his chair and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I believe he’s due in Wilton at eleven forty-seven.”

“Layton?” Dick exclaimed interestedly. “Not Charlie Layton, the Columbia man?”

“That’s the boy. Know him?”

“I’ve met him. He’s one of the best milers in the country. Stovebridge must be pretty good to run against him.”

“He is,” returned the older man. “He trains with a crowd that I’m not at all in sympathy with, but, for all that, he’s not a bad fellow; crackerjack tennis player, and has a splendid record for long distance running. He keeps himself in fair training and doesn’t lush as much as most of his friends do.”

“I see,” Dick said thoughtfully.

This did not sound at all like a fellow who would run down a child and never stop to see how badly she was hurt. As a rule, good athletes are not cowards, though he had known exceptions.

At the same time, Stovebridge’s actions had been suspicious. Dick had not failed to notice his consternation at the sight of the cap, though he had quickly recovered himself and his explanation had been plausible enough.

Later, during Merriwell’s conversation with him, the fellow’s agitation had been palpable. That he was laboring under a tremendous mental strain, the Yale man was certain. Of course, the cause of it might have been something quite different, but to Dick it looked very much as though Brose Stovebridge knew a good deal more about the accident than would appear.

And he had come to the club that morning alone in a red car!

All at once Dick became conscious that some one had paused on the drive quite close to the veranda and was looking at him.

As he raised his head quickly, he saw that it was the same dark-haired, sullen youth he had passed as he came out of the farmhouse that morning.

To Dick’s astonishment the fellow’s eyes were fixed on him with a look of fierce, malignant hatred which was unmistakable. His fingers twitched convulsively and his whole attitude was one of consuming rage.

As Merriwell looked up, the other seemed to control himself with an effort, and, turning his head away, slouched on along the drive.

“What’s the matter with him I wonder?” the Yale man mused. “He looks as if he could eat me up with the greatest pleasure in life. I wonder who he is?”

He turned to Roger Clingwood, who was talking with Buckhart and Tucker.

“Who is that fellow that just passed, Mr. Clingwood?” he asked, when there was a lull in the conversation. “Did you notice him?”

“Yes, I saw him. That’s Jim Hanlon; he occasionally does odd jobs about the grounds.”

“Hanlon!” Dick exclaimed. “Any relation to the little girl?”

“Yes, her brother.”

“Oh, I see.”

Dick hesitated.

“Is he—all there?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

Roger Clingwood looked rather surprised.

“Yes, so far as I know. He’s deaf and dumb, you see, and has the reputation of being rather hot tempered at times; but I never heard that he didn’t have all his faculties. Poor fellow! It’s enough to drive any one dotty to have to do all one’s talking with pencil and paper. I’m not surprised that he loses his temper now and then.”

“I should say not,” Tucker put in. “Just imagine getting into an argument and having to write it all out. I’d lay down and cough up the ghost.”

“I opine you’d blow up and bust, Tommy,” Buckhart grinned. “Or else the hot air would strike in and smother you.”

“You’re envious of my wit and persiflage,” declared Tucker. “I’d be ashamed to show such a disposition as that, if I were you.”

“When you’re talking with Hanlon, do you also have to take to pencil and paper?” Dick asked interestedly.

“Oh, no,” Clingwood answered. “He knows what you’re saying by watching your lips. He’s amazingly good at it, too; I’ve never seen him stumped.”

At that moment Stovebridge strolled out of the clubhouse and stopped beside Clingwood’s chair.

“Any signs of Layton yet?” he drawled.

“Haven’t seen him,” the other man answered. “He’s had hardly time to get here from Wilton, has he?”

“Plenty, if he came on the eleven forty-seven. Sartoris went over with his car to meet him. I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.”

He turned away and walked slowly down the veranda toward Marston lounging in a corner.

As Dick followed him with his eyes, there was a slightly puzzled look in them.

Stovebridge was so cool and self-possessed, so utterly different from the man who had shown such agitation barely half an hour before, that for an instant Merriwell was staggered.

“Either I’m wrong and he’s innocent,” he thought to himself, “or he has the most amazing self-control. There isn’t a hint in his manner that the fellow has a trouble in the world.”

Then the Yale man’s intuitive good sense reasserted itself.

“He’s bluffing,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll stake my reputation that, for all his pretended indifference, Brose Stovebridge is either the guilty man, or he knows who is. And I rather think he’s the one himself.”

Roger Clingwood pulled out his watch.

“Well, boys, it’s about time for lunch,” he remarked. “Suppose I take you up to your rooms and, after you’ve brushed up a bit, we’ll go in and have a bite to eat.”

“I’ll get the bags out of the car and be with you in a minute,” Dick said as they stood up.

“Wait, I’ll ring for a man to take them up,” proposed Clingwood.

“Don’t bother,” Dick said quickly. “They’re very light, and Brad and I can easily carry them. Besides, I’d like to see just where they’ve put the car so that I’ll know where to go if I want to take her out.”