But Frank did not gain as swiftly as he desired, for Diamond, also, was using all his energy to send his bicycle along.
“Faster! faster!” panted Frank.
Faster and faster he flew along. The hot breath of the desert beat on his face as if it came rushing from the mouth of a furnace. It seemed to scorch him. Fine particles of sand whipped up and stung his flesh.
He heard a strange laugh—a wild laugh.
“Heaven pity him!” thought Frank, knowing that laugh came from Jack’s lips. “The sight of that ghostly lake has nearly turned his brain with joy. I fear he will go mad, indeed, when he knows the truth.”
On sped pursued and pursuer, and the latter was still gaining. Frank Merriwell had engaged in many contests of skill and endurance, but never in one where more was at stake. His success in overtaking his friend meant the saving of a human life—perhaps two lives.
Now he was gaining swiftly, and something like a prayer of thankfulness came from his lips.
Once more he cried out to the lad in advance, but it seemed that Diamond’s ears were dumb, for he made no sound that told he heard.
One last spurt—Frank felt that it must bring him to Diamond’s side. He gathered himself, his feet clinging to the flying pedals as if fastened there.
A slip, a fall, a miscalculation might mean utter failure, and failure might mean death for Diamond.