No one save Merriwell himself ever knew how much he endured and how keenly he suffered during that cross-country run. Considering what he accomplished no one could have appreciated his unconquerable determination not to give up and drop out.

Toward the end, when all the greater difficulties were passed, he and Bramwell still clinging together, they came to Ragged Hill. They knew that not more than one man was ahead of them, and that man they had seen disappearing over the crest of the hill as they mounted its lower slopes.

Once or twice before this Bramwell had urged Frank to take the lead. This he now did once more.

“You are the man to beat Huntley,” he declared. “I fear I can’t do it.”

“You have too many fears,” said Frank. “Huntley hasn’t seen us. From the top of the hill he surveyed the country behind him. He must have seen most of the runners who are near, and he must feel that he has time to burn. He is full of confidence now.”

“You’re the one to take the confidence out of him.”

Frank waited for no further urging. He took the lead and set such a pace in mounting to the crest of the hill, following the difficult path they had discovered, that Bramwell dropped some distance in the rear.

The eastern side of the hill was partly cleared or had never borne timber. Down the declivity sped Merry. He cut hither and thither, choosing the best course.

Halfway down the hill was an old stone wall. In one particular spot the wall was lower than elsewhere, and behind it, just at that point, crouched two masked ruffians clutching sand bags.

One of them had peered over the wall and seen Frank coming down the hill.

“This is the bloke, pal!” he growled. “Reddy ter soak him!”

“All right!” hissed the other.

On came the runner. Like a bird he sailed over the weakest part of the old wall, wholly unaware of the masked ruffians who were lying in wait for him at that point.

They rose as he came over, and both leaped at him.

He saw them before his feet again touched the ground. With his upflung arms he sought to protect his head. The moment his feet touched the earth he ducked.

They were on him. One struck him a blow that staggered him, although it did not land full and fair.

The other missed him entirely.

But Frank went down to one knee, and they followed him up.

“Lay him stiff, pal!” snarled one.

“Stiff an’ cold!” panted the other.

Instead of seeking to rise, as they expected him to do, Frank shot out a foot and caught one of the men fairly in the pit of the stomach, doubling him up and hurling him backward.

Then he turned instantly on his back, with his feet toward the other, who sought to fling himself on Frank as he lay thus.

Both of Merry’s legs shot up from the ground as the man came down upon him. They caught the legs of the ruffian across the shins. A surprising result followed. The man’s feet went upward and he turned over in the air, falling on his back beyond Merry, with his head toward Frank’s head.

By this time Merriwell was up and had the wretch by the throat. He held him thus with one hand, tearing off his mask with the other.

“I want to see your features, my fine bird!” he said. “A trip to the stone jug will cure you of your pranks, perhaps.”

In the meantime, the other fellow had been flung back toward the weak point in the stone wall, and Bramwell, following Merry over, landed on the wretch with both feet and stretched him quivering on the ground.

“This one is cooked, Merriwell!” he cried.

“Go on, Bramwell—go on!” urged Merry. “Leave them to me! I’m out of the race now.”

The Ashport man hesitated a moment. He saw that Frank was in a position to make the ruffians his captives. If he lingered to give aid there would be no chance of defeating Huntley.

Away he went.

Frank was on his feet now. He limped to the spot where the second man lay, stripped off his mask and looked at him.

“I’ll know you both,” he muttered, and shot away in pursuit of Bramwell.

The waiting crowd had grown weary when, from the observ............