"It will be at least two days more before I can hear from dad," Merry remarked, just as they struck into the main street of the "camp," "and before we interfere too much with the professor I think we ought to learn from headquarters just how far we ought to go."
"Oh, bother that!" exclaimed Clancy. "If the old boy's in danger, Chip, we can't hang back waiting to hear from Bloomfield."
"Sure we can't. We're making a guess, though, when we figure that he is in any sort of trouble. Just because he can't be located is no sign he's shooting the trouble chutes."
"Yes, it is!" averred Ballard stoutly. "That dream I—"
"Oh, cut out the dreams and forebodings, Pink," broke in Frank, "We're dealing with facts now and not with a lot of bunk superstitions."
That dream had become Ballard's hobby, and he was in a fair way of riding it to death. Although he was easy going, and rather lazy when circumstances gave him the chance to be, yet he straightened suddenly at Frank's sharp fling at his delusion, and was on the point of flashing a keen retort. Before he could speak, however, Frank had turned in at Bradlaugh's office.
Mr. Bradlaugh sat at his desk, smoking a cigar. He welcomed the lads cordially and waved them to chair.
"What do you think about Borrodaile, Frank?" he asked, coming right down to the main subject.
"I think," was the prompt answer, "that he has a head that's stuffed with knowledge—but it's not the sort of knowledge that will help him hang on to that bonanza mining claim of his."
"My motion to a t, y, ty. He can go back to Caesar's time and tell you how the old Romans used to do business, but he's as innocent as a babe in arms about the way business is done in this day and age of the world. He needs looking after, or some one will get that claim of his for a song—and then forget the singing part. Have you any idea why he went back to Gold Hill after he had just come from there."