Frank Merriwell's Diamond Foes. Straight Over the Plate

COLONEL CARSON, OF CARSONVILLE.

Chip Merriwell, in running togs, had just taken a rail fence at a flying leap. As he dropped into the road beyond the fence, he halted suddenly and gave vent to a startled exclamation.

Almost at the same instant, a second figure in athletic shirt and track pants came hurtling over the fence, pulled up abruptly, and stood hanging on to Merry’s shoulder. This second person was Billy McQuade, with whom Frank Merriwell, junior, was spending a few days of the spring vacation.

The two friends had left home for a cross-country hike together. It was now the middle of the forenoon, they were on their way back, and had still four miles to go before reaching Carsonville.

The crisp spring air of morning gave the two runners new life at every breath. To many a languid youth it spelled laziness and lack of all effort, but Merry and his friend knew from experience that “spring fever” is only a convenient name for doing nothing. Both of them were looking forward to a luxurious relaxation in the


 long grass by the Carsonville mill pond that afternoon, but they intended to make it all the more enjoyable by an honest physical weariness.

At the point where the two friends struck the highway, it curved in a wide horseshoe bend in order to avoid a tongue of undrained swamp land that struck up from the river. Merriwell had come to the road on one side of the curve, intending to follow the highway back to town.

As he took the hedge bordering the road with a flying hurdle, he had caught sight of a buggy in the white stretch directly ahead of him. That one flashing glimpse had shown him a man in the buggy, and, as he came to earth, he saw the horse give a sudden leap, shying frantically at sight of the flying figure.

Merriwell regretted instantly that he had not looked before he had leaped, but it was now too late. Before Billy McQuade took the leap in turn, the mettlesome steed hitched to the buggy was tearing around the bend of road, while the lone occupant stood up sawing savagely at the reins.

“That’s a lesson I should have learned before this,” Merriwell murmured regretfully. “The horse shied when I came over the hedge, and he’s run away.”

“No doubt about that,” commented Billy, watching with startled eyes. “He looks as if he didn’t intend to stop this side of Fardale.”


The course of the runaway was anything but reassuring. The startled horse was racing madly around the horseshoe bend, with the buggy leaping and rocking behind him, threatening at every instant to go over.

The driver still stood erect, however. He was shouting in an angry tone of voice, and trying vainly to curb the frightened animal. Disaster was imminent at any moment.

“My eye!” Billy ejaculated soberly. “We’ve done it this time, Chip!”

“Then we’d better undo it,” snapped Merriwell, rousing himself. He pointed across the marshy land to the opposite bend of the road.

“Come along, Billy! We can cut straight across over there, and beat the horse to it. He’s forced to go clear around the bend.”

“Practical lesson in geometry,” murmured Billy, with a resigned look at the boggy strip. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Go ahead, old man, I’m with you. Hope the buggy will still be with the horse when it gets there!”

Chip Merriwell leaped across the road, Billy close behind him. They vaulted the rail fence on that side, and set off across the marsh land at the best possible speed.

It did not seem that Billy McQuade’s hope would be fulfilled. The runaway had by this time reached the central point of the curve, and the


 driver’s efforts seemed to have no effect, for the buggy was careering and bouncing as if ready to smash up at each wild leap.

Merriwell took a glance over his shoulder, and increased his speed. But it was difficult to cover the ground rapidly; pools of water lay here and there, the soft grass and soaked soil sucked at every step, and only by jumping from tussock to tussock could progress be made.

The two runners made it, however. They were nearly across the neck of sunken land when Merriwell heard a startled cry from his friend, and glanced around.

He was just in time to see the driver flung from the buggy!

With a thrill of fear that his carelessness had brought about an irreparable injury, Chip Merriwell dashed forward. The horse was almost upon him as he scrambled up and swung himself across the fence, but the frightened beast had no time to swerve. Taking a few long running steps, Merry flung himself sideways and caught at the bridle.

Almost directly, the horse stopped, trembling and heaving. With a breath of relief, Merriwell began stroking his muzzle, patting his neck, and uttering soothing words. The animal perceived that he was a friend, and stood quiet.

One swift glance showed that the buggy was uninjured, then Merriwell looked around for the


 driver, stepping back from the horse to get a clear view.

He saw Billy McQuade meeting the driver, who had risen to his feet. It was evident at once that he had suffered from nothing worse than a severe shock, for, as Merriwell turned and approached the two, he heard the driver cursing furiously. With a feeling of distaste, he inspected the man, whose clothes Billy was hastily brushing.

The driver of the rig was a tall, spare, stoop-shouldered man. He was very well dressed, and wore a gray mustache and goatee. There was a hard set to his face, and a pouchiness beneath his black eyes, that denoted self-indulgence, and a life that was anything but what it should be.

“You good-for-nothin’ loafer!” he roared, turning furiously on Billy, as Chip Merriwell came up. “You done this a-purpose! You——”

“It was not Billy’s fault at all,” broke in Merry warmly. “I was the first one over the fence, and your horse shied at me.”

The driver whirled on him, his rage becoming a cold fury as he met Merriwell’s firm, steady gaze.

“What are you doin’ in them duds?” he demanded. “So it was you, hey?”

“Yes,” and, although Merry’s eyes flashed at the tone of the man, he kept his voice cool. “Yes,

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 and I’m very sorry about it. Of course, I’ll be glad to settle for whatever damage was done.”

“Lot o’ good that’ll do!” growled the other, who seemed to be eying him with anything but liking. “What you chasin’ around in them duds for?”

“We were doing a bit of cross-country running,” Merriwell said quietly. Billy McQuade was flashing him queer looks which he interpreted as warnings, but he took no heed of them. “As I said, I’ll expect to make good any damage, and I’m very sorry the accident occurred. My name is Frank Merriwell, junior, and you’ll find me at the McQuades’ residence, if you want me.”

The man flung Billy a hard look, then laughed sneeringly.

“Mebbe I will and mebbe I won’t,” he jeered. “They ain’t goin’ to have a residence very long, I reckon. I s’pose he put you up to scarin’ that hoss, eh?”

“He did not!” cried Merry indignantly. The insinuation made him angry clear through. Billy flung him an imploring glance, but he was a chip of the old block, and showed it in his next words.

“I don’t know who you are, my friend, but you’ve got a disposition that I wouldn’t like to be let loose with. We’ve caused an accident, or, rather, I have, and I’ve apologized and offered to do all in my power to make it right.

“Instead of throwing slurs and curses into the

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 atmosphere, it’d be a whole lot more decent if you’d try to act white. I don’t blame you for being mad. I’d probably be mad myself in the same circumstances. But that’s no reason for your acting in this way.”

The stranger gave him a black look, then moved off.

“Humph!” he grunted sarcastically. “I guess you’re like your dad, if all I’ve heard say is correct. Let’s see what damage was done. I reckon the buggy was smashed up.”

Merriwell and Billy McQuade followed him to where the horse stood. The man went over the buggy, then examined the horse.

“Ain’t nothing busted,” he said, almost regretfully, it seemed. “But you kids are too gay, runnin’ around the country in them duds. It’s goin’ to be stopped.”

“Don’t let our clothes worry you,” retorted Merry. “You know where to find me if you want damages. Come along, Billy.”

He promptly turned his back. Billy threw a dubious look at the man, then followed slowly. Once more the deep voice reached Merriwell.

“You’ll be sorry for this, mind my words! You ain’t a-going to talk to me that way and get off with it, you young scoundrel!”

Chip Merriwell’s cheeks flamed a little, but he kept a firm grip on himself and walked on. After a moment he turned to see the man climb into his

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 buggy and give the horse a savage cut with the whip.

“The brute!” he murmured indignantly. “What that horse needs is a kind word, instead of the lash. More than likely that fellow had him whipped into such a temper that he would have shied at a dead leaf.”

Billy nodded. To his surprise, Merry saw that his friend’s usually clear, frank features were overcast and troubled.

“What’s the matter, old man? You seemed to know that fellow.”

“I do.”

Billy cast a worried look at the rig, now disappearing around the curve of the road.

“Here’s a go!” he muttered gloomily. “I guess we’re all in for it now, Chip.”

“Why? That man isn’t the sheriff, is he?” asked Merriwell, with a laugh.

“No. He’s a whole lot worse. That chap is Colonel Carson, who owns most of Carsonville, and he’ll make the old burg plenty hot for us now, believe me!”