CHAPTER VIII.
WHERE THE GOLDEN TRAIL LED.
Merriwell was not superstitious, and had no patience with any one who was.

He was forced to admit, however, that a strange coincidence had developed in the matter of Ballard's dream and the discovery that had just been made.
"Pink dreamed of nuggets as big as washtubs," said the marveling Clancy, "and they were arranged like stepping-stones, and stretched from the professor's claim to Gold Hill." By that time, Merry had got himself in hand.

He laughed softly.
"Yes, Clan," said he, "I remember.

These pieces of ore are not nuggets, however, and if the whole golden trail was raked together, I don't believe it would come anywhere near filling even a small-sized washtub.
And I'll bet the trail doesn't lead from here to Gold Hill." "In the dream," went on Clancy, "Pink saw a gang of toughs chasing the prof along the row of nuggets." "Which is about as consistent as dreams usually are.

If Professor Borrodaile wanted to get away from the toughs, why did he keep on his yellow stepping-stones?
Why didn't he duck aside and hide in the bushes?
All foolishness, Clan.