“He’s in here somewhere,” said Merry’s companion. “We’ll have to hunt for him.”
Frank was on guard for a trap, for it seemed quite possible he had been led into a snare. The search began. From room to room they went. At last they came to a wretched room, filled with old boxes and barrels. Frank was in advance. He entered the room, and there lay Hodge on the floor, drugged or—drunk!
It was hours later that Bart came to himself in a respectable room of a hotel. He opened his eyes, and they rested on Frank Merriwell, who was sitting there, watching and waiting.
Bart did not speak. He lay there, wondering where he was and if he had been dreaming.
After a little, Frank moved nearer the bed, smiling in his old, pleasant way, and said:
“Well, old man, I expect you feel pretty rocky?”
Still Hodge did not speak.
“The doctor said he thought you’d come round all right in a short time,” observed Merry. “He hasn’t been gone long.”
“Frank!”
“What is it, old man?”