Frank Merriwell, Junior's, Golden Trail

"Look here, you fellows," cried Ballard, "if I don't get this out of my system I'm going to explode. It will only take a minute or two, and—" "Go on and explode," cut in Clancy unfeelingly. "Can't you see that Chip and I are busy?" "But this dream was a corker, Red, and I—" "For the love of Mike, Pink, I wish you'd cork. Wait till the work out there is wound up and then you can—wow! How was that for a tackle, Chip?" Three separate and distinct times, there in the grand stand, Billy Ballard had tried to tell his chums, young Frank Merriwell and Owen Clancy, of a dream he had the night before. It seemed to have occurred to suddenly, for the forenoon and part of the afternoon had slipped away without any attempt on Ballard's part to rehearse the fancies that had afflicted him in his sleep. But now he was feverishly eager, and the rebuffs he took from the annoyed Clancy only exasperated him.