Frank Merriwell's Cruise

by Burt L. Standish

But the cry that had rung through the building! What had happened below?

For a moment Bruce hesitated. Then he quickly felt in his pocket and drew forth a match safe. A moment later, with lighted match in his fingers, he was descending the stairs into the dank and moldy basement.

At the bottom of the stairs was another door. It was open. Bruce stepped through it and stumbled over something, dropping his match, so that he was in the densest darkness.

At that moment the wild shriek rang out again so near that it seemed uttered in his very ear.

He had his revolver in his hand, and he whirled, his heart having sprung into his mouth, ready to use the weapon. In the darkness he saw nothing.

Bruce was shaking as he crouched there. He heard his teeth rattle together, and he realized that he was completely unnerved. He was tempted to leap up and bound up the stairs. Indeed, the desire to do so was almost irresistible.

He listened, thinking he might hear something like a moving person, but after that blood-chilling scream there was no other sound.

At last he put out his hand and touched the object over which he had fallen. That it was a human body he instantly realized.

The thought that Frank Merriwell lay there dead in the darkness nearly overcame him. He feared to light another match. That touch had told him that the body was not that of a person stiff and cold, as it must be had it lain there some time. It was still warm, as if with life, but still—how still!