All at once, they did come upon a haggard, pale-faced lad, who was sitting on a fallen tree, and seemed to be waiting for them to approach.
It was Bascomb.
"I have dodged searching parties all night, and I am not going to run any——"
Thus far did Bascomb get, and then he saw Merriwell. He stopped, and his jaw fell, while he shuddered, showing the strongest symptoms of terror. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and the expression on his face was one of unutterable horror.
"Bascomb!" cried Frank. "I am glad I have found you!"
He stepped toward the big fellow, but Bascomb leaped to his feet, shrieking:
"Don't touch me! You are dead—dead! Go away!"
And then, before another word could be said, before anybody could do a thing to prevent it, Bascomb turned and fled through the woods—fled as if pursued by fiends, shrieking forth his terror.
"After him!" cried Frank. "Don't let him get away! He is so scared that he will surely do himself injury if he escapes."
The pursuit began, and Merriwell soon found that Fred Davis was rather fleet of foot. In fact, Fred was able to keep near to Frank's side.