Burt Standish - Frank Merriwell's Triumph - or, The Disappearance of Felicia

“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?”

The sailor heaved a deep sigh.

“Don’t,” he sadly said, wiping his eye. “Talk to me of dreadful things – funerals, and deaths, and all that; but don’t ever suggest to me that the day will dawn when little Walter will recognize the fact that he is a has-been. It fills my soul with such unutterable sadness that words fail me. However, ere that day appears I propose to daze and bewilder the staring world. Why, even with my wonderful record as a ball player, it was only last year that I failed to obtain a show on the measly little dried-up old New England League. I knew I was a hundred times better than the players given a show. I even confessed it to the managers of the different teams. Still, I didn’t happen to have the proper pull, and they took on the cheap slobs who were chumps enough to play for nothing in order to get a chance to play at all.

“I knew my value, and I refused to play unless I could feel the coin of the realm tickling my palm. I rather think I opened the eyes of some of those dinky old managers. But even though Selee, McGraw, and others of the big leagues have been imploring me on their knees to play with them, I have haughtily declined. What I really desire is to get into the New England League, where I will be a star of the first magnitude. I had much rather be a big toad in a little puddle than a medium-sized toad in a big puddle. The manager who signs me for his team in the New England League will draw a glittering prize. If I could have my old-time chum, Peckie Prescott, with me, we’d show those New England Leaguers some stunts that would curl their hair.

“Speaking of Peckie, Mr. Merriwell, reminds me that there is a boy lost to professional baseball who would be worth millions of dollars to any manager who got hold of him and gave him a show. Play ball! Why, Peckie was born to play ball! He just can’t help it. He has an arm of iron, and he can throw from the plate to second base on a dead line and as quick as a bullet from a rifle. As a backstop he is a wizard. And when it comes to hitting – oh, la! la! he can average his two base hits a game off any pitcher in the New England League. To be sure, the boy is a little new and needs some coaching; but give him a show and he will be in the National or American inside of three seasons.”

“Are you serious about this fellow, cap’n?” asked Frank. “I am aware that you know a real baseball player when you see him, but you have a little way of exaggerating that sometimes leads people to doubt your statements.”

“Mr. Merriwell, I was never more serious in all my life. I give you my word that everything I have said of Prescott is true; but I fear, like some sweet, fragile wild-woods flower, he was born to blush unseen. I fear he will never get the show he deserves. While these dunkhead managers are scrabbling around over the country to rake up players, he remains in the modest seclusion of his home, and they fail to stumble on him. He is a retiring sort of chap, and this has prevented him from pushing himself forward.”

“You should be able to push him a little yourself, cap’n.”

“What! When I am turned down by the blind and deluded managers, how am I to help another? Alas! ’tis impossible! Coffee is served, Mr. Merriwell. Let’s proceed to surround our breakfast and forget our misfortunes.”

After breakfast Frank and Bart discussed the programme for the day. They decided to make an immediate and vigorous search for the lost mine. It was considered necessary, however, that one of the party should remain at the camp and guard their outfit. Neither Abe nor Worthington was suitable for this, and, as both Frank and Bart wished to take part in the search, Wiley seemed the only one left for the task.

“Very well,” said the sailor, “I will remain. Leave me with a Winchester in my hands, and I will guarantee to protect things here with the last drop of my heroic blood.”

In this manner it was settled. The sailor remained to guard the camp and the two pack horses, while the others mounted and rode away into the valley.

Late in the afternoon they returned, bringing with them a mountain goat which Merry had shot. As they came in sight of the spot where the tent had stood they were astonished to see that it was no longer there.

“Look, Frank!” cried Bart, pointing. “The tent is gone!”

“Sure enough,” nodded Merriwell grimly. “It’s not where we left it.”

“What do you suppose has happened?”

“We will soon find out.”

Not only had the tent and camping outfit disappeared, but the two pack horses were missing. Nor was Wiley to be found.

Hodge looked at Merry in blank inquiry.

“Where is this fellow we left to guard our property?” he finally exclaimed.

“You know as well as I,” confessed Frank.

“As a guard over anything, he seems to be a failure.”

“We can’t tell what has happened to him.”

“What has happened to him!” cried Bart. “Why, he has taken French leave, that’s what has happened! He has stolen our horses and piked out of the valley.”

Merry shook his head.

“I don’t believe that, Hodge,” he said. “I don’t think Wiley would do such a thing.”

“Then, why isn’t he here?”

“He may have been attacked by enemies.”

“If that had been the case, we would see some signs of the struggle. You can see for yourself that no struggle has taken place here.”

“It’s true,” confessed Merry, “that there seem to be no indications of a struggle.”

“Do you know, Frank, that I never have fully trusted that chap.”

“I know, Bart, you made a serious mistake on one occasion by mistrusting him. You must remember that yourself.”

“I do,” confessed Hodge, reproved by Merry’s words. “All the same, this disappearance is hard to explain. Our tent and outfit are gone. We’re left here without provisions and without anything. In this condition it is possible we may starve.”

“The condition is serious,” Frank acknowledged. “At the same time, I think it possible Wiley decided this location was dangerous and transferred the camp to some other place. That’s a reasonable explanation of his disappearance.”