Frank Merriwell, Junior's, Golden Trail;
Or, The Fugitive Professor.
By Burt L. Standish.
DREAMS AND OMENS.
"Look here, you fellows," cried Ballard, "if I don't get this out of mysystem I'm going to explode. It will only take a minute or two, and—"
"Go on and explode," cut in Clancy unfeelingly. "Can't you see that Chipand I are busy?"
"But this dream was a corker, Red, and I—"
"For the love of Mike, Pink, I wish you'd cork. Wait till the work outthere is wound up and then you can—wow! How was that for a tackle,Chip?"
Three separate and distinct times, there in the grand stand, BillyBallard had tried to tell his chums, young Frank Merriwell and OwenClancy, of a dream he had the night before. It seemed to have occurredto suddenly, for the forenoon and part of the afternoon had slipped awaywithout any attempt on Ballard's part to rehearse the fancies that hadafflicted him in his sleep. But now he was feverishly eager, and therebuffs he took from the annoyed Clancy only exasperated him.
It was hardly an opportune moment, however, to talk dreams and omens.Merry was wrapped up in a practice game of football, and was alternatelyscrutinizing players and hastily jotting down notes with a pencil.Clancy was not making any memoranda, but snappy work on the gridiron wasclaiming his full attention. With a sigh of resignation, Ballard bottledup his remarks and sat back on the hard boards.
Only Merry and his two chums were in the grand stand. The practice gamewas between the regular Ophir Athletic Club eleven and a scrub team. Ithad been put on for Frank's exclusive benefit.
For two straight years the O. A. C. had gone down to inglorious defeatbefore their rivals from Gold Hill—thirty-six to nothing on lastThanksgiving Day—and the sting of those defeats had made Ophirpessimistic and their eleven a joke. Another Thanksgiving Day was lessthan two months ahead, and the Ophir fellows were turning to Merriwellfor help. They felt that if any one could pick an eleven from the clubmembers and round them, into winning form, it was he, and he alone.
This was not the first practice game staged for Merriwell. The first onehad degenerated into a farce, for the spirit of fun had taken untimelygrip of the players and a promising exhibition had gone to pieces on areef of horseplay. Spink and Handy, for the club, had waited upon Merryand tendered apologies, and a second game had been arranged.Circumstances over which Merry had had little control had kept him awayfrom that second game; and now, four days later, the Ophir eleven weregallantly retrieving themselves.
The two teams had ranged themselves across the field, and a scrub foothad booted the oval well down toward the regulars' goal. A nervous fullback waited to receive that opening kick, while his teammates rushed athim to form their flying screen of interference. The ball evaded thearms that reached for it, while another back fell on it and kept itclear of the clutches of a scrub end.
Frank scrawled a note on the paper that lay on his knee. "That'sLeversee," he remarked, "but I think he'll steady down."
"That scrub end is faster than a streak of greased lightning, Chip,"commented the admiring Clancy. "Good material, what?"