"Oh, blazes!" exclaimed Ballard. "Don't make light of this dream. I just happened to remember, since we reached this grand stand, that I've had it three nights in succession. When a dream comes to you three times like that it's supposed to mean something."
"Sure," agreed Clancy, wagging his head; "it means that for three nights you have—er—eaten not wisely but too well. How's that, Chip? Pretty good, eh?" He straightened up, looked grave, and went on to Ballard; "Dreams, William, are the result of tantrums in the tummy. You load up a suffering organ with grub that's so rich it affects the imagination; consequently, when the razmataz, in a state of coma, projects itself into the medulla oblongata—"
Ballard, yelling wildly, made a jump for Clancy. Merry, however, had already taken hint in hand.
"That sounds too much like Professor Phineas Borredaile," said Frank. "Call off the dog, Clan;" and he smothered his red-headed chum and pushed him down on the hard boards.
"I'll be good, Chip," murmured Clancy, in a stilted voice. "Take your hands, off my face and let me breathe."
Frank released him with a laugh, and Clancy smoothed himself out.
"I was only expounding," explained the red-headed chap, "and now that the prof isn't around to do it, a substitute has to take hold."
"Pink isn't the only one who has taken a foolish powder," said Merry.
"And, talking about Phineas, what do you suppose the old fossil is up to?" Clancy went on, just a shade of anxiety sifting into his tones. "It's four days now, since he suddenly made up his mind to go over Gold Hill. What did he go for? And why is he staying away? We haven't heard a word from him since he left."
Merriwell looked serious.