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Frank Merriwell at Yale; Or, Freshman Against Freshman

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<h2> CHAPTER XX. </h2> <h3> A HOT CHASE. </h3>  "My stars!" gasped Harry. "There's trouble, sure enough!" "I should remark!" palpitated Robinson. "I'll bet a dollar one of the fellows is full of shot!" "And somebody is in danger of being full of teeth directly. Come, this is our time to create a diversion." Then Harry let himself out. He whooped like a wild Indian and pranced right up toward the house. Robinson followed the good example, but they did not seem very successful in attracting attention to themselves. Two dark figures were seen scudding through the orchard, and then a man came out of the house, slamming the door and shouting: "Sick 'em, Tige—sick the pesky rascals! Chaw 'em up! Don't let 'em git erway! Take 'em, dorg!" The dog was doing his duty in the vicinity of one of the sheds, but his barking suddenly turned to howls of pain, and several blows were distinctly heard. Despite the two yelling and dancing lads in the road, the old farmer made for the shed, and it was seen that he had a gun in his hands. "He's going to shoot somebody!" cried Harry, wildly. "We must hake a tand—er—take a hand in this! Come on!" With all the speed he could command Rattleton dashed after the farmer. The barking of the dog had suddenly ceased, and a third dark figure was seen scudding through the orchard. "Stop, you pesky thief!" yelled the farmer. "If you don't stop I'll shoot! I'll fire ye full of lead!" Then he halted and raised his gun to his shoulder. He was quite unaware that Harry was now quite close upon him. When Rattleton saw the man raise the gun he swung back the hand that held the heavy stick. With all his strength he hurled the stick at the farmer. Whiz! It sped through the air and struck the man fairly between the shoulders. At the same instant the gun spoke, but the farmer went down in a heap, and his aim was spoiled. "Had to do it to save some one of the fellows from carrying off a load of buckshot," muttered Rattleton, who was desperate. "I don't want to see anybody shot to-night." He did not stop running, but he dashed straight up to the man, snatched up the gun, and fled onward. "Hey! hey!" cried the man, as he scrambled to his feet. "Consarn you! Drop that gun! Bring it back!" "Come get it!" invited Harry, with a defiant laugh. The farmer started after the boy, who led him a merry chase across the fields and over the fences. Harry kept just far enough ahead to lure the panting man on. "If I ever git my hands on ye you'll go to jail!" declared the farmer. "I'll learn you pesky rascals a lesson!" "Teach—not learn, uncle," Harry flung back. "You should be more careful about your grammar." "I believe you are one of them consarned student fellers." "You are a wonderful guesser." "If I can't ketch ye I'll report ye." When he had lead the man far enough so that he was sure the other fellows had plenty of start, Harry tossed aside the gun, which was an old muzzle-loading, single-barreled affair. The panting farmer stopped and picked up the gun, then he stood and shook his fist at Rattleton, who was speeding away like a deer. "Oh, I'll report ye—I will, by jee!" he vowed over and over. In the meantime Merriwell had had a most exciting adventure. He had found the turkey roost and had selected the biggest old gobbler of them all. But the gobbler was a hard customer and he showed fight, whereupon there was a general squawking and squalling. Clinging to his capture, Frank made a dash for the door. He tripped and fell, and it is certain that by falling he saved himself from carrying off a charge of shot, if not from death. He had tripped over a rope that connected with a spring gun, which was discharged, and some of the shot tore through his coat sleeve. Then he heard the dog, and he knew he was in for a hot time. He gave the old gobbler's neck a fierce wring, then dropped the turkey just in time to meet the dog. The creature sprang for Frank's throat, and the boy struck him with the club which he had brought along. The dog dropped to the ground, but immediately made another dash. Frank was fortunate in getting in a lick that stretched the animal quivering on the ground. He could hear Rattleton and Robinson whooping wildly, but he knew no time was to be lost in getting away, so he caugh up the gobbler and ran. Frank heard the farmer calling for him to stop, but, with Mr. Gobbler dangling on his back, he fled the faster. The gun spoke, but he was not touched, and he did not stop to look around, so he did not know how Harry had saved him. Three-quarters of an hour later the five fellows who had started out on the turkey chase met on the outskirts of New Haven. They came up one at a time, Rattleton being the last to appear. There was a general feeling of relief when it was found that all were there safe and sound. It was decided that they should go into the city one at a time, taking different routes. Frank believed he could reach the house without being stopped, although it would be no very easy job. He was remarkably successful until he was on York Street and close to Mrs. Harrington's. The street seemed clear, and he wondered where all the fellows could be, when of a sudden a tall form in dark clothes stepped right out before him. He gave a gasp, for at a glance he seemed to recognize one of the professors. "Young man," sternly said a familiar voice, "what have you there?" "It's Professor Grant!" thought Frank, aghast. The professor blocked his way. What could he do? Quick as a flash he swung the gobbler around and struck his challenger a smashing blow with it, knocking him sprawling. Then he took to his heels, still holding fast to his capture. In a moment he heard the sound of feet in pursuit, and he knew the outraged professor was after him. Frank's heart was in his mouth, and he felt scared for the first time that night. He was certain it would mean expulsion to be caught. For all of the running he had done that night, he fled like a frightened deer, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. He had never dreamed that Professor Grant was a sprinter, but the man was running at great speed—seemed to be gaining. "Stop, sir!" cried the pursuer. "I tell you to stop!" "Not much!" thought Frank. "I won't stop! If you catch me your wind is better than I think it is." He did not dare go into his house, so he dashed past, cut into another street, turned corner after corner, and still he found himself pursued. It seemed marvelous that Professor Grant could keep up such a pace. Finally the pursuer called: "Merriwell, is that you?" No answer. "I know you," declared the pursuer, and now Frank perceived that that voice did not sound like Professor Grant. "You are a crackajack runner. I wanted to give you a try to see what you could do. I'll see you to-morrow. Good-night." The pursuer gave up the chase. "As I live, I believe it was Pierson, manager of the ball team!" muttered Frank when he was sure it was no trick and he was no longer followed. "He looks something like Professor Grant, and he is a great mimic. That's just who it was." A short time later he was in his room, where a jovial party of freshmen was gathered.       <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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