“I’ll do it now!” he whispered huskily, as his eyes fell on Dick Merriwell’s back. “I’ll end it right here!”
His hand found and gripped the stock of the old pistol. Swiftly advancing toward the unconscious lad, Mike produced the weapon and softly cocked it.
Just then a foul tip carromed from the bat of a Cornell man, came whistling through the air, and struck Lynch near the temple, dropping him unconscious to the ground.
When Mike opened his eyes he was in the locker room and Merriwell was the first person he saw. Several others were there, but Dick was on his knees, working over Lynch.
Mike caught his breath and lifted a hand to his head.
“What—what happened to me?” he muttered huskily.
“You were hit by a baseball,” answered Dick. “It knocked you senseless. It hit you in a bad place, too—close to the temple.”
“Hit by a baseball!” muttered Lynch. “Knocked me out, didn’t it? Isn’t it queer, but I seem to have been dreaming. I seem to remember the queerest things, but they’re all hazy like the visions of a dream. I thought you were drowned, Merriwell. I thought we ran you down in a steam launch, and then it seemed that your ghost was haunting me. What a ridiculous dream, wasn’t it?”
“Ridiculous, indeed,” nodded Dick. “But you see I’m not drowned, and you realize I can’t be a ghost in my present material condition.”
“Oh, yes, I realize that,” said Mike. “Of course I know there’s no such things as ghosts. What’s that cheering?”