Harry Rattleton clutched the big fellow by the other side, spluttering:
"Am I doing gaffy—I mean going daffy? Look there! Who is that waving his hand to us?"
"It's the ghost of Frank Merriwell, as true as there are such things as ghosts!" muttered Browning.
But it was no ghost. It was Frank Merriwell in the flesh, alive and well! He greeted them as they came off the tender. He caught them in his arms, laughing, shouting, overjoyed. And they, realizing it really was him, hugged him and wept like a lot of big-hearted, manly young men.
Frank explained in a few words. He told how, after they had left him, he had belted himself well with life-preservers and left the "Eagle" in time to get away before the explosion. Then he was picked up by an Atlantic liner, which brought him to Liverpool in advance of his friends.
Thus he was there to receive them, and it seemed that the sea had given up its dead.
[THE END.]
The next number (159) of the TIP TOP WEEKLY will contain "Frank Merriwell's Backer; or, Among London Sports," by Burt L. Standish.