will happen to the old prof."

"Show us your nuggets as big as washtubs, Pink," grinned Clancy, "and
I'm willing to begin to sprint."

"The dream was only a warning. It didn't suggest what we were to do, or
how we're to go about it, but just gives us a hunch that Borrodaile
needs help."

"That's the trouble with dreams--there's too much guesswork about 'em.
If you have one, and something happens that seems to tally with it, why,
you're apt to take it for granted that you had a hunch. I'll bet you've
had thousands of dreams about things that never happened, and yet here
you're picking out one that appears to jibe with the prof's absence from
Gold hill, and trying to make us think it's a warning. Stuff!"

"You're too free with your snap judgments, Red," said Ballard solemnly,
"but wait a while and you'll change your tune."

Merriwell was already on his way out of the clubhouse, Clancy and
Ballard gave up their discussion and hurried after him. The clubhouse
and athletic field were less than a mile from the town of Ophir, and the
three friends were soon jogging along through the sand on their way to
Mr. Bradlaugh's office.

Bradlaugh was president of the O. A. C., and Western representative of
the syndicate that owned the big mine and stamp mill to the south of
town. It was the mine that had made the straggling settlement of Ophir a
possibility.

"It will be at least two days more before I can hear from dad," Merry
remarked, just as they struck into the main street of the "camp," "and
before we interfere too much with the professor I think we ought to
learn from headquarters just how far we ought to go."

"Oh, bother that!" exclaimed Clancy. "If the old boy's in danger, Chip,
we can't hang back waiting to hear from Bloomfield."

"Sure we can't. We're making a guess, though, when we figure that he is
in any sort of trouble. Just because he can't be located is no sign he's
shooting the trouble chutes."

"Yes, it is!" averred Ballard stoutly. "That dream I--"

"Oh, cut out the dreams and forebodings, Pink," broke in Frank, "We're
dealing with facts now and not with a lot of bunk superstitions."

That dream had become Ballard's hobby, and he was in a fair way of
riding it to death. Although he was easy going, and rather lazy when
circumstances gave him the chance to be, yet he straightened suddenly at
Frank's sharp fling at his delusion, and was on the point of flashing a
keen retort. Before he could speak, how