His eyes traveled slowly to the blood-stained cleek, and with a shudder he hurled it from him into the woods.
“I’ve killed him!” he gasped hoarsely. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?”
Suddenly he raised his head and listened intently. Was that the sound of voices coming from behind the hill yonder? They must not find him here. He must fly somewhere—anywhere to get away from that horror on the ground whose ghastly half-closed eyes seemed to be watching him.
In a panic of fear he snatched up his golf bag and, without a backward glance, sprang into the woods and disappeared.
Presently the crashing of the flying man through the undergrowth died away and all was still. A gray squirrel poked his head out of the bushes and, sighting the huddled heap, fled with chatterings of alarm. Then came the distant sound of talk and laughter from beyond the hill, and the next moment a small, white sphere came sailing through the air and landed with a thud on the turf close to the body of Jim Hanlon.
It was as though the thing had roused him, for with a low moan he stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.
Following the thud of running feet, some one knelt beside him and raised his head, and the half-conscious boy found himself gazing into Dick Merriwell’s eyes, full of compassion and concern.
“Who did it, Jim?” he asked quickly.
Then he suddenly remembered.
“Was it Stovebridge?” he questioned eagerly.