Dick had no small difficulty in finding the captain, but this he finally
accomplished. The captain was a Swede. At first he seemed to think the
American boy was crazy, but it did not take Richard Merriwell long to
convince that Swede of his sanity and earnestness.

The captain stated that he must have a sum representing nearly a hundred
dollars a day for the use of his boat. Dick agreed to pay it. The
captain grinned and asked him where he was going to get so much money.

Then the American lad flashed a purse, the clinking sound of its
contents causing the eyes of the Swede to glitter.

“How much advance money do you demand?” asked Dick.

The captain said he would require two days’ pay.

“And then you will be ready to start——”

“It’s night now,” said the Swede. “Ay be rady to start in mornang.”

“You must be ready to start in just sixty minutes,” said Dick.

“Ay can’t do it.”

“If you are ready to start in sixty minutes I’ll pay you this amount
extra.”

The boy laid down four pieces of money.

“Ay be rady,” said the captain, taking up the money.

In the meantime Professor Gunn had met and told Colonel Stringer, and
the colonel had carried the story to his English friend, Coddington.
These men were eager to join in the pursuit of Nadia’s captors. They
were on hand when Dick and Brad appeared and announced the securing of
the steamer.

“My dear Coddington,” said the colonel, “the prospect of a little
fighting makes my blood stir. Are yo’ armed, suh?”

“I have my pistol, don’t you know,” answered the Englishman.

“Very good, suh. I have two pistols, and I can use them both. We’ll make
it red-hot fo’ this Spaniard and his Turkish friend, if we evah catch
them.”

“But I’m afraid we’ll never catch them,” said Coddington. “This steamer
the boy has secured is a slow old tub.”

“We’ll overtake them if we have to pursue them clean up to Lake Victoria
Nyanza,” declared Dick grimly. “I don’t see why they turned up the
river, if they wish to get away.”

“That’s what puzzled me up a plenty, pard,” put in Buckhart. “Mebbe
Budthorne made a mistake; mebbe the Turk’s yacht went down the river.”

But Budthorne insisted that he had made no mistake, and so, when they
had boarded the excursion steamer and found everything ready for the
start, they headed toward the upper waters of the Nile.

“Look there!”

“Where?”

The exclamation and the question were spoken in a whisper. Dick uttered
the first; the second came from several of his companions.

“Close to the shore in that cove yonder.”

“What do you see?”

“Looks like the black hulk of a boat in the shadow of those thick
palms.”

“It sure does look that way!” palpitated Buckhart.

“But it may be one of these river boats, don’t you know,” said
Coddington. “They find many places where they swing in to the shore and
tie up.”

“She shows no light,” said Colonel Stringer.

Dick spoke to the pilot.

“Can you run in there?” he asked. “We think we see a boat near the
shore.”

The pilot explained that the river was quite deep there, such current as
there was being thrown near the bank by its winding course. He sounded
the bell for half speed and the steamer glided toward the deep shadows.

Professor Gunn was very nervous.

“We must be near the site of old Memphis,” he said. “The ruins are
covered by a great palm grove, and you can see plenty of palms there, on
the shore.”

But the others were watching the small, dark hulk that lay near the
shore close under the shadow of the palms, through which the light from
the low-lying moon sifted in spots.

“Whoever is on board there, they ought to know we’re coming,” growled
Buckhart, disgusted by the fuss made by the little steamer, which was
snorting and wheezing in a manner to be heard afar in the wonderful
silence of that Egyptian night.

“I think some one is stirring, don’t you know,” said Coddington. “I
fancied I saw something move.”

Dick had fancied the same. To him it seemed as if some dark figures left
the steamer and slipped away into the gloom of the palms. Once something
like a muffled cry came out across the water, but the wheezing of the
steamer prevented them from hearing it distinctly. Even though it were a
cry of some sort, they knew it might come from a night bird or a
prowling wild beast amid the ruins of the ancient city.

Suddenly and unexpectedly a bar of light shot out from the black hulk
near the shore. It struck in their faces, dazzling and blinding them.

Involuntarily they half crouched, while several of them reached for
their weapons.

“A searchlight!” exclaimed Dick. “We’ve found the yacht! Look out for
trouble!”

“There sure is liable to be some shooting!” breathed Buckhart; “and
we’re mighty fine targets here in this light. Look out for bullets!”

Then a voice hailed them. Some one called to them in Turkish. It was a
challenge, although they did not understand the words.

“Talk English,” cried Dick. “We don’t understand that lingo.”

“No, we don’t savvy it any at all,” said Buckhart.

“Are you trying to collide with me?” demanded a voice from behind the
searchlight. “Keep off!”

“He savvys United States all right,” said Brad, in deep satisfaction.
“Now we can powwow with him.”

The captain of the steamer gave a signal for the engineer to reverse his
engines.

“Who are you?” demanded Dick.

“What right have you to ask?” was the indignant retort.

“We take the right. Better answer.”

“I am a peaceful individual seeking to get some sleep. Why do you come
pounding in here with your noisy old boat and disturb my rest?”

“He’s a whole lot saucy,” growled the Texan.

“We are looking for a private yacht, owned by a Turkish gentleman,”
explained Dick.

“A Turkish gentleman—not!” muttered Buckhart.

“You are friends?” was the inquiry from behind the source of the light.

“Not exactly; but we have important business with the gentleman.”

“What’s his name?”

“What’s your name?”

Dick was talking to give the captain time to bring the steamer alongside
the yacht, which was no simple task under the circumstances.

Evidently the unknown did not fancy Dick’s manner of speech, for he
again commanded them to keep off.

“If you touch my boat you will mar her,” he said. “I don’t know you. You
may be scoundrels, robbers, assassins.”

“We’re looking for some scoundrels,” said the Texan, in a low tone; “and
I certain reckon we’ve found them. Get ready to board that boat, and be
prepared to fight.”

“I warn you to keep off!” angrily shouted the voice of the unseen man.
“We’ll have to defend ourselves.”

“If you’re on the level,” said Dick, “you have nothing to fear from us;
but we are determined to make an investigation and find out who and what
you are.”

“We may fire on you.”

“Better not.”

“We can. You are in the light, while it is impossible for you to see
us.”

“If you do any shooting, you’ll regret it.”

During this “game of talk” the pilot was manipulating the steamer as
skillfully as possible, the bell tinkling nervously and frequently in
the engine room.

Dick felt something touch his leg and glanced down. Dunbar Budthorne,
agitated and cowering, was crouching on his knees in the shadow of the
rail at the boy’s feet.

“Get up!” muttered Dick, in a low tone. “Don’t let them see they have
frightened anybody. We must bluff this thing through.”

“They may begin shooting any moment,” chattered the cowering fellow. “If
they do, they can pick us all off easily. You’ll be the first one
killed, too, for Bunol thirsts for your blood.”

Not another one of the group had sought shelter. Colonel Stringer, his
gray mustache bristling, was standing erect with his shoulders squared
toward the enemy, while John Coddington was planted near, his hands on
his hips. Buckhart was close to the rail, his square jaw set, fire in
his eyes. The professor, inspired by the others, had not betrayed any
alarm, although Dick fancied he was ready to drop and seek shelter the
instant any trouble began.

In the very forefront was Merriwell.

The enemy seemed in doubt, and while they hesitated the steamer bumped
against the side of the yacht.

The moment the two boats touched Dick and Brad were on the jump. The
searchlight no longer bore on them. They leaped to the rail and went
over it. From the steamer they sprang to the deck of the yacht.

Colonel Stringer followed, only he was somewhat more cautious. He was a
moment ahead of Coddington.

Dick had a pistol in his hand when his feet struck the deck of the
yacht. Buckhart also had drawn a weapon.

They found themselves confronted by two men, both of whom seemed
unarmed.

“Is this the way peaceable persons behave?” asked a cuttingly sarcastic
voice. “You have boarded my yacht in defiance of my wishes, and, if my
eyes do not deceive me in this light, you have weapons in your hands.”

“We shall not use our weapons unless you force us to use them,” said
Dick. “Have no fear of that.”

“Under the circumstances,” said the stranger, “you must confess that you
have given us great provocation. We should have been justified in firing
on you as you drew near, for your movements have been hostile all
along.”

“I reckon there was a right good reason why you did no shooting,” put in
Brad.

“And that reason was—what?”

“You didn’t dare.”

“Oh, but any man has a right to defend himself and his property. You are
wrong in thinking we did not dare. What had we to fear?”

“The row it would raise if you did fire on us. You bet your boots
shooting of that sort would have kicked up a rumpus.”

“Your logic is poor. However, I do not intend arguing with you. Now that
you are here, be good enough to state your business instantly. As soon
as possible I wish you to retire.”

“I presume you haven’t the least idea of the nature of our business?”
said Dick sarcastically.

“Not the least, I assure you.”

“Where is Miguel Bunol?”

“Who is that?”

“Miguel Bunol.”

“You will pardon me, but I fear I have not the pleasure of the
gentleman’s acquaintance.”

“You are a Turk?”

“Yes.”

“You own this yacht?”

“Yes.”

“You are the man so often seen watching our party in Cairo.”

“I think you must be mistaken. I do not seem to remember you. However,
if you will step forward a little, I’ll have the searchlight turned on
you. I may be able to recognize you then.”

“Trick, pard!” hissed the Texan. “At close range they may begin the
shooting if they get us into the light.”

“Wait a minute,” invited Stringer. “Let me say something, if yo’
please.”

Then he addressed the owner of the yacht.

“Suh,” he said, “I am Stringer, suh, Colonel Weatherby Stringer, at one
time of the khedive’s army. I am visiting Egypt again after a lapse of
some years, suh, but I assure yo’ I have friends of power and influence
in Cairo and Alexandria. In case harm comes to me, suh, the whole affair
will be investigated, and yo’ will find yo’self the sufferer if yo’ are
in any degree at fault. That’s all I have to say, suh. Now go ahead and
use your old searchlight as much as yo’ like.”

This was the little man’s defiance.

“Perhaps you may not know me?” broke in the Englishman. “I am John
Coddington, and I have a large business interest in Cairo. If I should
happen to get shot to-night, I assure you, don’t you know, that it would
be a very serious matter for any one who did the shooting.”

The stranger bowed.

“It happened, gentlemen,” he said, “that I fancied I recognized you both
when the searchlight was turned on your boat.”

That seemed to explain why no shooting had been done. The presence of
Stringer and Coddington had held the enemy in check.

The enemy? Were these two men the only ones on the yacht? Surely not.
Our friends knew there must be more, but where were they?

“Now,” said Dick, “as we are beginning to understand each other, we will
inform you further that we are looking for a Spaniard by the name of
Miguel Bunol. It is known that he proceeded up the river on the private
yacht of a Turkish gentleman. I hardly fancy there is another such yacht
on this part of the river.”

“And so you think this man you seek must be on board my boat?”

“Exactly.”

“He is not.”

“Do you deny that he has been? Do you deny that he brought a young girl
on board this yacht against her will?”

The owner of the yacht laughed disdainfully.

“Deny it?” he exclaimed. “Of course I do!”

“Then you lie!” shouted a voice, as Dunbar Budthorne came leaping from
the steamer to the yacht and rushed forward to confront the cool Turk.
“I saw her brought on board! This is the yacht! She is here! Search the
boat!”

CHAPTER XXX—HIS JUST DESERTS

The Turk did not shrink before Budthorne. He remained unruffled as he
said:

“Very well; search the boat, gentlemen. As I know two of you to be
responsible, you have my permission to look the yacht over from stem to
stern.”

“It’s a bluff!” growled Buckhart.

But in his heart Dick was beginning to fear that neither Nadia nor Bunol
would be found on the yacht.

Budthorne was greatly wrought up, and he urged the others to come on.

The Turk spoke to his companion, who stepped aside and disappeared.

A moment later lights flashed up all over the yacht.

The Turk stood smiling in the light of an electric lantern, his manner
indicating his confidence in the result of the impending search.

The lights showed two men forward, where they had been standing in the
shadow of the pilot house.

They were the pilot and engineer. One was a Greek and the other an
Armenian.

“Are these all of your crew?” demanded John Coddington.

“Yes, sir.”

Now that the lights were on, Professor Gunn came crawling cautiously
over the rail onto the deck of the yacht, to which the steamer had been
made fast.

“Hum! ha!” he coughed. “I must see that nothing is neglected. Proceed
with the search, gentlemen.”

Medjid Bey, the owner of the yacht, lighted a Turkish cigarette and
puffed away with indifference as the boarders began searching the yacht.

It did not take long to search the small, but elegant craft from one end
to the other, and not a trace of Nadia or Bunol was found.

Budthorne was infuriated. He seemed almost deranged.

“What have they done with her?” he cried. “What have they done with my
sister?”

Brad and Dick held a consultation in low tones.

“We’re tricked, pard,” said the Texan. “The Spanish snake and the dirty
Turk have fooled us. What can we do? They’ve carried Nadia off. I’m for
taking that Mohammedan varmint by the throat and squeezing the truth out
of him.”

“I’m afraid we can’t get at the truth that way,” said Dick. “It is a bad
piece of business.”

“Bad! Pard, if that Spaniard harms a hair of Nadia’s head I’ll skin him
alive! You hear me warble! I’ll kill him by inches!”

Dick walked toward the stern of the yacht, which had swung quite close
to the shore. Indeed, not more than twelve or fourteen feet of water lay
between that end of the yacht and the bank, showing that the water was
very deep there.

Merriwell stood looking into the shadows of the palm grove, feeling
desperate and baffled. Suddenly in the gloom of the grove there was a
red spout of fire.

The report of a pistol startled the peaceful night. Dick Merriwell
dropped on the deck of the yacht. A roar of fury burst from the lips of
Brad Buckhart. With two great leaps he reached the rail of the yacht and
perched on it. Then he uprose and flung himself forward in a spring for
the bank.

He cleared the space and landed on the shore. Recklessly he charged into
the palm grove, a pistol in his hand. The Texan believed his comrade had
been shot down in a dastardly manner, and his heart was filled with a
mad longing for vengeance.

He ran toward the spot where the flash of the weapon had been seen.
Through a dim bit of moonlight ahead of him a figure seemed to flit.
That glimpse was enough for the Texan. He flung up his hand and his
pistol barked twice.

“Give me a fair look at ye, and I’ll certain get ye!” he panted.

He came to some ruined steps of stone and stumbled down them, losing his
footing and falling sprawling at the foot. But he was up in a moment,
and again he fancied he caught a glimpse of a flitting form.

Crack! Once more he fired.

“Bet I nipped him then!” he snarled.

He continued the mad pursuit, little reckoning what might happen,
thinking only that he might reach the person who had shot down his
friend and wreak vengeance for the dastardly act.

Suddenly right ahead of him the red fire spouted and a singing bullet
brushed his ear. At the same moment Brad struck his foot against a
broken column of marble which had been unearthed from the ruins and went
headlong to the earth.

It must have seemed that he had been dropped by the bullet. At any rate,
with a cry of satisfaction, a man leaped up and came at him.

Buckhart rose to his knees. He had dropped his revolver, else he could
have shot the other. As it was, the man flung himself on the Texan,
hurling him backward to the earth.

“I have you,” snarled a voice, “and when I am done both my enemies will
be dead and out of the way!”

It was the voice of Bunol!

It was now a hand-to-hand struggle for life or death, amid the palms
which grew above the buried city of Memphis. What little moonlight
sifted through and fell upon the combatants simply served to make the
desperate struggle seem all the more terrible.

Although taken thus at a disadvantage, Buckhart was a fighter every inch
of him, and he was not immediately overcome by the murderous Spaniard.

Bunol had flung his whole weight on the Texan, and Brad’s head struck
against a block of stone, causing him to see stars; yet the American lad
clutched the wrist of his antagonist and held fast.

It was well he did so, for the Spaniard had drawn a knife, and this he
was trying hard to use.

Bunol cursed in Spanish. He twisted and squirmed, seeking to free his
hand. He was astonished at the strength of Buckhart, for he believed the
Texan had been brought down by a bullet and was sorely wounded.

“You die hard, American dog!” he panted; “but die you shall!”

“Not by your hand, you varmint!” retorted Brad.

“Oh, I’ll kill you yet!”

The Texan was gathering his strength, and suddenly there was an
upheaval, Bunol being unable to pin the husky chap to the ground.
Snarling like a mad dog, the Spaniard writhed in an eellike effort to
escape from the clutch that continued to render his knife hand helpless.

Powerful though he was, Buckhart felt his hold slipping. There was
perspiration on Bunol’s wrist and on the Texan’s fingers. The task of
maintaining that grip grew more and more difficult.

Still Buckhart realized that it was possible his life depended on his
success in clinging to the fellow’s wrist.

Suddenly Bunol snapped his hand free.

“Now,” he snarled; “now I kill you!”

But, even as he struck, Buckhart sent him backward with a surge, and the
keen blade merely slashed the sleeve of the American lad.

Brad fancied he knew just where he had dropped his pistol, and he
hastily felt round for the weapon.

“Let me get it,” he growled, “and I’ll make a sieve of that cur!”

He was given little time to search. Bunol recovered quickly. He saw the
other feeling about on the ground. Crouching, he half rose and launched
himself at Brad.

The boy from the Pan Handle country, however, was on the alert, and,
with equal swiftness, he sprang aside.

The Spaniard missed his intended victim, but the knife in his fingers
struck fire from a stone, on which it was broken near the hilt.

A snarl of dismay escaped the lips of the murderous wretch.

Then Buckhart grappled with him again.

Brad did not know the knife was broken, so he made a grab at Miguel’s
wrist to prevent him from slashing.

“Whoop!” came from the lips of the Texan. “This sure is the real thing
in the way of a scrimmage. It’s a right long time since I’ve been in one
like this.”

Bunol cursed bitterly. At last he realized that his antagonist could not
be seriously wounded. Although he did his best to break away, the
American lad hurled him down and held him.

One of Brad’s hands found Miguel’s throat.

“Got ye now!” he grated triumphantly. “Tell me where you have taken
Nadia! Speak quick, or you’ll never have the chance to speak at all!”

“Go ahead!” gasped the helpless scoundrel. “Kill me! Kill me, and you’ll
never set eyes on her again!”

“Where is she?”

“You can’t force me to tell.”

The fingers on the throat of the Spaniard tightened. Bunol’s breath
hissed in his throat and then stopped.

“I certain am not in a fooling mood,” said Brad, “and it’s up to you to
talk plenty fast.”

Bunol could not talk then, and he could do nothing but gasp when the
crushing hold was relaxed.

“I’ll give you about twenty seconds to begin unloading your mind,” said
Brad. “Time is flying a heap. Ten seconds gone! Fifteen seconds! Time’s
up!”

The cry that Bunol started to utter was cut short by the pressure once
more applied to his throat.

Then a figure came flitting through the shadows, dark as night and
silent as a phantom. It sped to the spot and was on Buckhart before the
Texan realized that another was present.

The boy was hurled aside. He had been attacked by a huge black man.

This fellow flung Buckhart from Bunol and pinned him to the ground, a
knee on his breast.

Gaspingly the Spaniard rose.

“Hold him, Kahireh!” he gasped. “Don’t let him get away! Where is your
knife? Let me have it quick!”

His hands fumbled in the girdle of the black man. A moment later he
uttered a cry of satisfaction. A bit of moonlight that came through the
palms fell on the blade of a long knife that gleamed in the Spaniard’s
hands.

“Hold him still, Kahireh!” grated Miguel. “Now I will cut his throat!”

Never had Brad Buckhart been nearer death than at that moment, for
Miguel Bunol really meant to make his words good. He intended to cut the
throat of the helpless boy, who was held for slaughter by the powerful
black man.

But Brad’s time had not come.

Out of the near-by shadows leaped still another figure. Bunol was bowled
over with a kick. Then the heavy butt of a pistol fell on the head of
the black man, who pitched forward across the Texan.

“Brad! Brad!” called a voice that was filled with anxiety; “are you all
right?”

Then the strong hands of his dearest friend on earth pulled Buckhart
from beneath the stunned giant.

“Pard,” gasped the Texan, in joyous bewilderment, “is it you? Why, I
certain reckoned you were dead a heap! I saw the flash and saw you fall
on the deck of the yacht.”

“But I saw a moving shadow in the grove and dropped just in time to
escape being shot in my tracks,” said Dick. “Are you hurt?”

“None at all. But where is that varmint Bunol? Only for this other
galoot I’d choked the truth out of him or finished him. Where is he?
There—there he goes!”

Bunol had taken flight, running as fast as possible through the grove.
Instantly both lads were off in pursuit, determined not to let the
scoundrel give them the slip.

“Shoot, pard!” urged Buckhart. “He may slip us if you don’t!”

“And I may kill him if I do. I want to force him to tell where we may
find Nadia.”

“Better kill him than to let him get away,” panted Brad. “If I had my
gun——”

Crack! Dick fired.

There was a cry of pain ahead of them, and they saw the fleeing figure
fall.

“Nailed him, Dick!” exulted Brad. “That’s the ticket! That was the way
to stop him!”

In truth, Merriwell had brought the fleeing Spaniard down with a single
shot. In a moment they reached the fellow, who was lying on the ground,
alternately cursing and groaning.

As they came up, Bunol lifted himself on his left elbow. His right hand
went back. A shaft of moonlight gleamed on something in his hand.

The Texan uttered a warning cry.

Dick Merriwell dropped as if shot, and for the second time that night he
did so barely in time to escape death at the hand of his bitter enemy.

The huge knife Bunol had taken from the black man whistled through the
air, barely missing Merriwell as he fell.

Then Buckhart pounced on the young scoundrel.

“You dog!” grated Brad. “I sure will cook you this trip!”

But Dick interfered a moment later, checking the fury of the boy from
the Pan Handle country, and preventing him from injuring the Spaniard
further.

“Go ahead!” whimpered Miguel, in a way that seemed quite unusual for
him. “You may as well finish the job! You have smashed my knee, and I’ll
bleed to death, anyhow!”

“I must have hit him in the leg,” said Dick. “I fired low.”

Buckhart struck a match and Dick made a hasty examination, questioning
the wounded rascal. He found that Bunol had been wounded in the knee and
was bleeding profusely. With his pocketknife Merriwell quickly cut away
Miguel’s trousers and exposed the wound.

The Spaniard lifted the upper part of his body and looked at his bloody
knee. A groan escaped him, and then he began to sob. All the nerve had
been taken out of him.

Dick quickly cut a strip from the lower part of Bunol’s trousers leg,
twisted it like a rope, tied it round the fellow’s leg above the knee,
inserted his pistol barrel through the loop and began to twist, thus
tightening the manufactured cord until it began to cut into the flesh
and checked the flow of blood.

In the meantime Brad had been questioning Bunol about Nadia, and the
cowered wretch confessed that she was hidden close at hand in a portion
of an excavated temple and still guarded by one of the two black men.

A distant call startled the boys. When the call was repeated they
recognized it as coming from some of their friends, and they answered
it.

Soon Colonel Stringer, Coddington, the professor, and Budthorne came
hastening through the palm grove. As they approached, they saw a man
dodging away. They ordered him to stop, but this resulted in his fleeing
still more swiftly, and he quickly disappeared.

Then the colonel declared he heard a low cry, not far away. The Texan
joined them, declaring Bunol had confessed that Nadia was near by. They
began searching, and soon they came upon the mouth of an excavation, one
of many such, made by scientists in uncovering the ruins of old Memphis.

From the depths of this opening Nadia answered his call. In a reckless,
headstrong manner, the Texan let himself down into the opening, released
all holds and slid to the bottom.

“Here she is!” he shouted, in delighted satisfaction. “She’s all right!
Hooray! Whoop! Whoop-ee! Get a rope from the steamer and yank us out.”

Medjid Bey gave an order to his engineer immediately after our friends
left the yacht for the shore. The engineer hastened to get up steam.
This was not such a difficult task, as the fires had been kept in a
condition that would enable them to move with very little delay.

The Turk leaned on the rail of his yacht and listened to every sound
that came from the palm forest. Finally he spoke to the Greek, who had
lingered near his master’s side.

“Cast off from that steamer,” he said. “Do so quietly. Don’t attract
attention.”

Thus it happened that the captain of the steamer was surprised some
moments later to discover that the yacht was floating clear of his boat.
He sang out to Medjid Bey, but the Turk made no answer.

A sound of moving machinery and puffing steam came from the yacht. The
anchor was hoisted, the yacht swung round.

“It’s no fight of mine,” muttered the captain of the steamer, in
Swedish. “Let him go. I’ve earned my money.”

When our friends reappeared on the shore, accompanied by Nadia and
bearing the wounded Spaniard, they discovered that the yacht was rapidly
disappearing into the silver mist, far down the placid Nile.

On the return trip to Cairo Nadia told how Bunol and Medjid Bey had
discovered the approaching of the steamer long before it arrived in the
vicinity of the yacht. The Spaniard was confident pursuers were coming.
He wished to fight them from the yacht, but the Turk objected.

“Then put me ashore,” said Bunol. “Give me the girl and those two
Nubians to take care of her. If they board your yacht, light up and keep
away from them. I’m going to kill one of my enemies to-night. I’ll fire
from the shore.”

And so it happened that Nadia was dragged ashore and thrust into the
excavation, the black men being left to guard her. One of them left the
other, seeking to render Bunol assistance in the encounter with
Buckhart; but Dick appeared in the nick of time. Finally the other took
flight, and Nadia was found, exhausted and hysterical after her fearful
experience, but otherwise unharmed.

When Cairo was finally reached Miguel Bunol was ghastly white and limp
from the loss of blood and pain he had endured. Dick lost no time in
getting the fellow into a hospital.

In the morning Merriwell visited his enemy. He wore a very sober face on
returning to the Shepherd’s Hotel.

“Is he dead?” asked Brad.

“No; but he may not recover. His right leg has been amputated above the
knee.”

“Well, I opine he’s got what was his just due,” said the Texan.

                                THE END.

BURT L. STANDISH

whose stories in book form appear exclusively in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY
has not lived in vain. Even if he does not write another line, he has
accomplished so much good with his Merriwell stories that “Well done,
thou good and faithful servant,” may be truly said to him on account of
his splendid work. In addition to the works of Mr. Standish, there are
books by Horatio Alger, Jr., Oliver Optic and dozens of other popular
writers in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY that make this line great, big value at
Fifteen Cents per Copy.

“The Right Books at the Right Price”

NOTICE: If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the
price of each copy to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

Notwithstanding the fact that the sales of magazines have increased
tremendously during the past five or six years, the popularity of a good
paper-covered novel, printed in attractive and convenient form, remains
undiminished.

There are thousands of readers who do not care for magazines because the
stories in them, as a rule, are short and just about the time they
become interested in it, it ends and they are obliged to readjust their
thoughts to a set of entirely different characters.

The S. & S. novel is long and complete and enables the reader to spend
many hours of thorough enjoyment without doing any mental gymnastics.
Our paper-covered books stand pre-eminent among up-to-date fiction.
Every day sees a new copyrighted title added to the S. & S. lines, each
one making them stronger, better and more invincible.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers

79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY