Frank Merriwell's Triumph Part 9

a.s.sured the sailor.

The deranged man was silent now, and they all seemed to be listening with eager intentness.

"Why doesn't he sing some more, Merry?" whispered Bart.

After some moments, the mysterious voice was heard again. It seemed to come from the air above them, and they distinctly heard it call a name:

"Frank!"

Merry stood perfectly still, but, in spite of himself, Bart Hodge gave a start of astonishment.

"Frank Merriwell!"

Again the voice called.

"Great Caesar's ghost!" panted Hodge in Merry's ear. "Whoever it is, he knows you! He is calling your name. What do you think of that?"

"That's not so very strange, Bart."

"Why not?"

"Since we came into the valley, either you, or Wiley, or Abe have spoken my name so this unknown party overheard it."

"Frank Merriwell!" distinctly spoke the mysterious voice; "come to me!

You must come! You can't escape! You buried me in the shadow of Chaves Pa.s.s! My bones lie there still; but my spirit is here calling to you!"

"Booh!" said Wiley. "I've had more or less dealings with spirits in my time, but never with just this kind. Now, ardent spirits and _spritis fermenti_ are congenial things; but a spooky spirit is not in my line."

"I tell you to keep still," whispered Hodge once more.

"I am dumb as a clam," a.s.serted the sailor.

"Do you hear me, Frank Merriwell?" again called the mysterious voice. "I am the ghost of Benson Clark. I have returned here to guard my mine.

Human hands shall never desecrate it. If you seek farther for it, you are doomed--doomed!"

At this point Worthington broke into a shriek of maniacal laughter.

"Go back to your grave!" he yelled. "No plotting there! No violence--nothing but rest!"

"Now, I tell you what, mates," broke in Cap'n Wiley protestingly; "between spook voices and this maniac, I am on the verge of nervous prostration. If I had a bottle of Doctor Brown's nervura, I'd drink the whole thing at one gulp."

Having shouted the words quoted, Worthington crouched on the ground and covered his face with his hands.

"What do you think about it now?" whispered Bart in Frank's ear.

"Whoever it is, he knows about Benson Clark and his claim. He knows you buried Clark. How do you explain that?"

"I can see only one explanation," answered Frank, in a low tone. "This man has been near enough at some time when we were speaking of Clark to overhear our words."

"This man," muttered Wiley. "Why, jigger it all! it claims to be an ethereal and vapid spook."

"Don't be a fool, Wiley!" growled Hodge. "You know as well as we do that it is not a spook."

"You relieve me greatly by your a.s.surance," said the sailor. "I have never seen a spook, but once, after a protracted visit on Easy Street, I saw other things just as bad. I don't think my nerves have gained their equilibrium."

"What will we do about this business, Merry?" asked Hodge.

"I don't propose to be driven away from here by any such childish trick," answered Frank grimly. "We will not build another fire to-night, for I don't care to take the chances of being picked off by any one shooting at us from the dark. However, we will stay right here and show this party that he cannot frighten us in such a silly manner."

"That's the talk!" nodded Hodge. "I am with you."

"Don't forget me," interjected the sailor.

"You!" exclaimed Frank sharply. "How can we depend on a fellow who sleeps at his post when on guard?"

"It's ever thus my little failings have counted against me!" sighed Wiley. "Those things have caused me to be vastly misunderstood. Well, it can't be helped. If I am not permitted to take my turn of standing guard to-night, I must suffer and sleep in silence."

Having said this in an injured and doleful manner, he retreated to the tent and flung himself on the ground.

Frank and Bart sat down near the tent, and listened and waited a long time, thinking it possible they might hear that voice once more. The silence remained undisturbed, however, save for the gurgle of the little brook which ran near at hand.

CHAPTER V.

WILEY'S DISAPPEARANCE.

Night pa.s.sed without anything further to disturb or annoy them. The morning came bright and peaceful, and the sun shone pleasantly into the Enchanted Valley. Wiley turned out at an early hour, built the fire, and prepared the breakfast.

"Seems like I had an unpleasant dream last eve," he remarked. "These measly dreams are coming thick and fast. Night before last it was pirates; last night it was spooks. It seems to be getting worse and worse. If this thing keeps up, I will be in poor condition when the baseball season opens in the spring."

"Then you intend to play baseball again, do you, cap'n?" asked Merry.

"Intend to play it! Why, mate, I cannot help it! As long as my good right arm retains its cunning I shall continue to project the sphere through the atmosphere. To me it is a pleasure to behold a batter wildly swat the empty air as one of my marvelous curves serenely dodges his willow wand. I have thought many times that I would get a divorce from baseball and return to it no more. But each spring, as the little birds joyfully hie themselves northward from their winter pilgrimage in the Sunny South, the old-time feeling gets into my veins, and I amble forth upon the turf and disport myself upon the chalk-marked diamond. Yes, I expect to be in the game again, and when little Walter gets into the game he gets into it for keeps."

"What if some one should offer you a prominent position at a salary of ten thousand a year where you would be unable to play baseball?"

inquired Merry, with a sly twinkle in his eye. "You'd have to give it up then."

"Not on your tintype!" was the prompt retort.

"What would you do?"

"I'd give up the position."

Frank laughed heartily.

"Cap'n, you're a confirmed baseball crank. But if you live your natural life, there'll come a time when your joints will stiffen, when rheumatism may come into your good arm, when your keen eye will lose its brightness, when your skill to hit a pitched ball will vanish--then what will you do?"