CHAPTER VI.

DICK MERRIWELL WINS.

About ten o’clock next morning Brose Stovebridge and his friend Marston were sitting together in the latter’s favorite corner of the Clover Club veranda.

Considering the crowd of the day before, the place seemed deserted. One man, absorbed in the morning paper, lounged at the far end of the veranda, and a foursome was just teeing off on the links across the drive; but otherwise there was no one in sight.

Presently the deaf mute, shouldering a rake, came around the corner of the house and began to rake up the roadway.

Fred Marston yawned.

“Deuced dull this morning,” he drawled.

“Little early yet for any one to be around,” Stovebridge returned absently.

He was dressed much as he had been the day before, except that he wore a cloth cap of medium black and white check, obviously new.

“Cap worked to a charm, didn’t it?” Marston remarked after a moment’s pause. “I saw Merriwell taking it in when we drove up, and it stumped him, all right. He’d be surprised to learn that I bought it yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, it’s got him guessing all right,” the other answered. “He may suspect what he likes, but he can’t prove anything on me now.”

Despite the athlete’s assumption of nonchalance, there was an underlying note of anxiety in his voice which Marston seemed to notice.

“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” he asked in a peevish tone. “You ought to be chipper as a lark, and yet I swear you’ve got something on your mind.”

Stovebridge glanced quickly around, but there was no one within hearing distance.

“I can’t help worrying about the girl,” he said in a low voice. “I heard this morning that the doctor was there all night. They’re afraid of internal complications.”

“That’s too bad, of course,” Marston remarked, without any particular feeling in his voice. “But I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. You’re safe, no matter what happens.”

“But if she should die, there’ll be a rigid investigation,” Stovebridge said slowly. “You can’t tell what they might unearth. The idea makes me cursed nervous.”

“For goodness’ sake, don’t borrow trouble!” the other said sharply. “If you keep on going around with that long face some one will begin to smell a rat. All you’ve got to do is to sit tight and say nothing. They can’t prove anything on you if you only throw a good bluff.”

Neither of them gave a thought to the dumb youth who was raking the drive some forty feet away. But had Stovebridge seen the ferocious glare in the dark eyes which were furtively watching him, he would have been more than disturbed--he would have been seriously alarmed.

Marston yawned again and stretched himself lazily.

“Wish somebody would come around so we could get up a little poker game,” he remarked. “This sitting here doing nothing is deadly dull.”

Stovebridge arose to his feet with sudden resolution.

“Get your clubs and let’s go around the nine hole course,” he suggested. “It will do you good.”

“No thanks,” Marston drawled. “I never by any chance enjoy doing the things that are good for me, and you know I hate golf. Toddle along, Brose, and I’ll wait here until somebody comes around that has a sensible idea of amusement.”

Stovebridge shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

“Well, I’ll have to do it alone, then,” he said as he started for the dressing room for his clubs.

When he returned, a few minutes later, Jim Hanlon had disappeared.

“Aren’t you going to take a caddy?” Marston inquired as his friend crossed the drive to the first tee.

“No; I’ve only got a few clubs. I can manage without one.”

Marston watched him drive off with a tolerant smile, and when Stovebridge had disappeared over a knoll, he got up and lounged through the reception hall to the buffet.

Stovebridge was not playing in good form at all. He drove wretchedly, his brassy shots were impossible, and even his putting worse than he had ever known it to be before. Consequently by the time he had holed in at the fifth green with a score greater by fourteen than ever before, he was in a furious rage and cursed the clubs, the balls, the course--everything but himself.

With an effort he pulled himself together and made a fair drive from the fifth tee. The course was rather winding and along one side was a thick wood, which had been left quite untouched when the links were laid out.

As he followed the ball he saw that the wind had taken it close to the trees, if not in amongst them, and he cursed fiercely again.

When he came up, however, he found that it lay about six feet from the edge of the wood, and, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he took his cleek out of the bag and swung it once or twice over his shoulder.

His back was toward the trees, and he did not see the figure which crept stealthily out of the underbrush.

The next instant there was a rush behind him, something struck him on the back, and, taken by surprise, the clubman lost his footing and fell, with Jim Hanlon on top of him, clutching his windpipe with all the strength in his slim, muscular fingers.

After the first, momentary shock of surprise, Stovebridge struggled desperately, finally succeeding in tearing the choking fingers from his throat and struggling to his feet. For a moment he stood silent, his breath coming in gasps and his eyes full of a great fear, as he faced the crouching figure before him.

Then, without warning, the clubman snatched up the iron-headed cleek and, springing forward, struck the other a terrific blow over the head.

Hanlon reeled and collapsed in a silent heap on the ground, blood smearing his forehead.

For a full minute Stovebridge stood as if turned to stone. His face was white as chalk, as he gazed in horror-stricken fascination at the silent thing before him.

Then he passed one shaking hand across his forehead in a dazed manner.

“What have I done?” he muttered in a strange voice. “What have I done?”

His eyes traveled slowly to the blood-stained cleek, and with a shudder he hurled it from him into the woods.

“I’ve killed him!” he gasped hoarsely. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?”

Suddenly he raised his head and listened intently. Was that the sound of voices coming from behind the hill yonder? They must not find him here. He must fly somewhere--anywhere to get away from that horror on the ground whose ghastly half-closed eyes seemed to be watching him.

In a panic of fear he snatched up his golf bag and, without a backward glance, sprang into the woods and disappeared.

Presently the crashing of the flying man through the undergrowth died away and all was still. A gray squirrel poked his head out of the bushes and, sighting the huddled heap, fled with chatterings of alarm. Then came the distant sound of talk and laughter from beyond the hill, and the next moment a small, white sphere came sailing through the air and landed with a thud on the turf close to the body of Jim Hanlon.

It was as though the thing had roused him, for with a low moan he stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.

Following the thud of running feet, some one knelt beside him and raised his head, and the half-conscious boy found himself gazing into Dick Merriwell’s eyes, full of compassion and concern.

“Who did it, Jim?” he asked quickly.

Then he suddenly remembered.

“Was it Stovebridge?” he questioned eagerly.

Hanlon nodded weakly.

“Which way did he go?”

The dumb boy shook his head.

“You don’t know?” Dick said disappointedly. “Did you find out anything? Is he the one who ran over Amy?”

Hanlon nodded, and his eyes took on a faint gleam of rage.

“What’s happened?” asked Jack Niles as he hurried up.

Then he saw the boy’s face.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Somebody hit him! What cur would do a thing like that?”

The Yale man looked up at him, and his dark eyes were cold and icy.

“Our friend Stovebridge is the man,” he said in a tense voice.

“What?” Niles cried in utter amazement. “Stovebridge! The cowardly hound! But what reason----”

“I rather think it was because Hanlon found that Stovebridge was the man who ran over his sister,” Dick explained quietly. “They must have had an altercation, and this is the result.”

Overcome with amazement, Jack Niles listened to Merriwell’s brief explanation; and when the Yale man had finished the other’s face was dark with rage. Roger Clingwood had come up with Buckhart and Tucker in time to hear it.

“The scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “I’ll have him run out of the club for this.”

“Out of the club and into jail!” supplemented Niles fiercely. “The child may die at any moment, I hear.”

“The thing is to catch him,” Clingwood said anxiously. “No doubt after this, he’s run away.”

Jim Hanlon staggered to his feet with Dick supporting him.

“I think I can catch him,” the Yale man said quietly. “Look after Hanlon, will you, Brad.”

Buckhart stepped over and took the dumb boy’s arm, and without a word Merriwell turned and sprang into the woods, Niles following close at his heels.

Almost at once he found the bloody cleek and, a few feet farther on, came upon the bag of golf sticks, which Stovebridge had thrown aside in his haste. Then, with what seemed to Niles almost superhuman skill, the Yale man picked up the trail of the fleeing scoundrel, and followed it on a run. His lame ankle was forgotten; he betrayed not the slightest limp.

To one of Dick’s training, trailing was a comparatively easy matter in the woods, where broken twigs, bruised leaves, and bent branches of the bushes marked the way clearly. But when they emerged from among the trees to the close cropped sward of the links again, he scarcely lessened his speed. It seemed as though he knew almost by intuition which way the man had gone.

Very soon Niles fell behind. For all of his condition he was beginning to be winded, while his companion showed no signs whatever of even hurried breathing.

Rapidly the distance between them increased as Merriwell forged ahead, and presently he vanished over a high knoll, leaving Niles to plod on alone, gasping and breathless, but determined not to give up.

At last he reached the summit and there he paused with an exclamation of satisfaction.

A perfectly straight stretch of green was spread out before him. It was over a mile in length, and by far the longest hole of the course. Though there were several slight undulations, it was for the most part quite level, being broken here and there with grassy bunkers placed to make the hole more difficult.

About half way down the stretch a party of golfers had stopped their play and were staring in astonishment at the strange sight of two young fellows tearing over the grass as hard as they could run. The one in advance was Stovebridge, who ran desperately as though his life depended on it. His face was white and set, his breathing labored, his eyes full of a great fear.

A hundred yards behind him Dick Merriwell was covering the ground at an amazing speed. Apparently unhampered by golfing clothes or bandaged ankle, he ran lightly and easily as though on the cinder track. It seemed to the excited Niles on the hill top that he almost skimmed over the ground like a bird.

“Jove, what running!” he cried aloud. “Oh, I wish I had a watch! I never saw anything like it on the track. There can’t be eighty yards between them now; he’s gained twenty in a couple of minutes. Stove must be getting winded. There! What a jump! He took that bunker like a bird. Stove had to climb over it. What a hurdler he must be! Another five yards gained.”

For a moment he stood silent, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Another bunker!” he cried presently. “Merriwell is a perfect wonder. He’s as fresh as when he started. Great Scott! I never saw anything like this in all my life.”

Niles was fairly jumping up and down in his frenzied excitement.

“Go it! go it!” he cried. “Stove’s all in. Only fifteen yards more. Why didn’t I bring a watch? He’s making a record! Go it, Dick! Ten yards more--eight! Oh, why isn’t there somebody else here to see this! He’s got him! He’s got him!”

Fairly shrieking out the last words, Jack Niles plunged down the slope, his arms waving like an erratic windmill, and ran toward the two men who stood together at the far end of the course. One, cool and fresh, his breath coming a little unevenly, stood with his hand on the shoulder of the other, who was exhausted to the verge of collapse, breathing with great gulping gasps, unable to get enough air into his lungs. His whole frame trembled, and his guilty eyes, unwilling to meet the stern, accusing ones of the man before him, were fixed upon the ground.