“Hello!” sounded still clearer in the unmistakable voice of the captain of the nine.
“Take the Blake road.”
“All right.”
“Merriwell is leading, as usual!” panted Defarge. “Here he comes!”
A dark figure was coming swiftly down the dusky road. With the stone in both hands, Defarge crouched and watched, every muscle taut, every nerve quivering.
“He’s some rods ahead of the next man,” he thought. “He’s played right into my hands.”
The figure was plainly that of Merriwell. Defarge straightened a little and lifted the stone. In a moment the unconscious young athlete would be directly beneath the revengeful scoundrel on the ridge.
“Now!” Defarge panted the word as he swung the stone over his head with both hands, and hurled it with murderous aim straight at the head of Merriwell.
There was a thud, and he saw Frank go down and lay outstretched upon the ground.
“I’ve done it! I’ve done it!”