When there was no answer he succeeded in dragging himself to his feet, reeled across the cemented floor, and tried to open the door.
It refused to move before his efforts.
“No use,” he muttered, stumbling back to the couch and dropping upon it. “I’m bagged. I can’t understand it, and I suppose I’ll have to wait until somebody comes around to explain. If it’s a joke, it’s a blamed poor one. You hear me gurgle!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
FROM THE BAR Z RANCH.
Although he had promised to return early that night, the Texan did not return at all. Dick was highly vexed over Buckhart’s failure to come in as soon as he had promised, finally falling asleep with the intention to give Brad a piece of his mind in the morning.
In the morning the Texan was still absent. Dick became alarmed. As soon as possible he telephoned to Mabel and learned that Brad had bidden her good night before ten-thirty the previous evening.
What had become of Buckhart? This was the question which soon stirred up no end of excitement, but midday delivery brought Dick a letter which he anxiously opened, reading the following message:
“Dear Pard: Suppose you’re a heap worried about me. You needn’t be. I’m all right. Will explain on meeting you in Providence. I’ll be there in time to do the backstopping in that game. Depend on me.
“Faithfully, Brad.”
Not thirty minutes behind the letter arrived a startlingly picturesque individual who nearly pulled the door bell out by the roots and scared Maggie when she appeared at the door by yanking off his broad-brimmed hat, making a sweeping bow and huskily saying: