Dick Merriwell's Pranks Part 24

He exerted all his strength in the effort to break away, but realized that he had very little chance to succeed.

Through a haze he saw Nadia struggling weakly in the grip of the crooked Turk and one of the black men. There was a sudden roaring in his ears, but through it came a sharp sound that he knew was a scream from the lips of the unfortunate girl.

A feeling of desperate fury shot through his heart. The very fact that he felt himself impotent to aid Nadia thrilled him with a horrible madness. He remembered the warning words of Ras al Had.

But had the old sheik been sincere? Many a time he had heard that no Moslem ever felt himself bound in honor to an infidel. In fact, to deceive and betray an infidel was regarded as a commendable and praiseworthy proceeding.

Had not Ras al Had played a crafty game from the start? It was truly surprising that the sheik had dared array himself against the priests before the temple. Had he not done so in order to deceive and betray the infidels more completely? Was it not possible the old scoundrel had realized that any harm befalling the boy and girl in the vicinity of the bazaars might bring swift retribution on the offenders, for which reason he had entered into the affair, held the mob in check for the time being, finally to decoy the victims into a part of the city where they could be murdered with very little chance that the crime would ever be punished?

This hazy thought caused young Merriwell to twist and squirm in the clutch of those iron hands, making a last deranged effort to free himself that he might fight for her.

His senses reeled and a black cloud, riven by flashes of lightning, descended upon him. He knew he was losing consciousness. Heavy bells rang in his ears. Somewhere in the distance cannon boomed. Then these sounds died away. The harsh bells and booming cannon were silenced by an organ peal. The music thrilled through him. It sank to a soft, throbbing strain and then receded into the distance, growing fainter and fainter.

Peace fell on him. He struggled no more.

Was it death?

CHAPTER XII-BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH

d.i.c.k's next sensation was that of an acute pain that shot through every limb and every part of his body. On his chest there seemed a terrible weight that was smothering him, while his head was being crushed by an iron band. He was choking; his neck gave him the most exquisite agony.

Far away he seemed to hear the babble of mocking voices. Some one was laughing at him; there were many of them.

In spite of the terrible pains he felt, every limb seemed numb and helpless. He had not strength nor power of will. A husky groan came from his lips, which were purple and tinged with blood. That sound called forth another burst of mocking laughter.

He opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing, for the bright sun of the Orient was s.h.i.+ning full upon him.

He knew not what had happened.

After a bit he began to realize that he was lying flat on his back in a narrow street, while around him at a little distance were standing many strange men. They were gazing at him in contempt and laughing at his misery. To him in his agony their faces seemed the faces of fiends.

A feeling of resentment and anger lay hold upon him. It infuriated him because they could stand about and mock him in his wretchedness.

"You dog!" he tried to cry; but the hissing gasp that came from his lips was inarticulate.

One of the crowd stepped out and poked the boy with his foot. Then he lifted his hand to his mouth and threw back his head, as if drinking, after which he made a few staggering steps.

The crowd roared with laughter.

For all of his condition, d.i.c.k understood that pantomime. The crowd thought him drunk.

But what had happened to him? Why was he lying there in that wretched street, with the fierce sun beating on him?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had taken place. His effort carried him back to Fardale. For the time being he fancied he had been engaged in a desperate game of football, and in the fearful line-bucking clash he had been injured. That was it. He was lying on the football field. The narrow street, the queer, gray houses, and the mocking fiends who laughed at his misery were the hallucinations of his shocked brain.

What were the boys doing? Had they checked the charge of the enemy?

Perhaps they had the ball! Possibly some one of them had carried it over the enemy's line for a touchdown, and so, in the excitement of victory, their injured captain had been forgotten.

"Rah! rah! rah! Fardale!"

He tried to cheer. It was the duty of a true son of old Fardale to cheer as long as the breath of life remained in his body.

Once more that sound of mocking laughter reached him. Again he opened his eyes.

He saw no comrades in red and black. He saw no stand packed with cheering cadets. Again he beheld the gray buildings of the dirty street.

Again he saw those leering faces and grinning mouths all around him.

"It's a nightmare!" he whispered. "I must break the spell! I must move!"

He made a mighty effort, and, in spite of the pain, rolled over on his side.

The old man came up and kicked him back into his former position.

"Wait!" thought the boy-"wait till I get up, you dirty wretch! You'll not wipe your feet on me after that!"

One of the crowd spat at him and called him a filthy infidel.

"I'll try to remember you, also!" said d.i.c.k to himself.

Weakly he lifted his hands to his neck. It was paining him frightfully, and he seemed to feel marks upon it, as if something had left indelible prints in the flesh.

"I'm not in Fardale," he thought. "I'm somewhere-somewhere-somewhere far away. Where am I? and how did I get here?"

The pressure on his head prevented him from thinking. He felt to see if an iron band were truly crus.h.i.+ng his skull.

He could find nothing of the sort.

"I must get up! I must! I will!"

They laughed and called to him as he lifted himself little by little to his elbow. At last, with his hands on the ground and his body lurched to one side, like a man wounded unto death, he paused, breathing with a horrible, whistling sound.

"Strength-I must have strength!" he thought. "If I give up the least bit, I'll drop back here and never rise again."

So he waited until a little more strength came to him. He seemed to summon it by his indomitable and unyielding will.

He heard the rabble chattering about him, but he no longer heeded them.

"The ocean liner-England-Italy-Constantinople!" He was beginning to remember.

"Where is Brad? Where is the professor?"

He straightened up, in spite of all the pain it cost him. He s.h.i.+fted until he was on his hands and knees.

The old man, grinning maliciously, again hastened forward and lifted his foot, intending to kick the boy over.

"Stay!"