“We’ve got a couple of hours yet which we may as well put in practicing a little, don’t you think?” he remarked. “That is, if you can supply us with togs.”
“Sure thing,” Gardiner returned. “Come in to the house and I’ll fit you fellows out.”
It was amazing how quickly the anxious, worried looks on the faces of the Forest Hills boys were replaced by grins of joy, as they realized their good luck. A few minutes later they were dashing about the field after flies, scooping up hot liners, or taking turns at the bat with an enthusiasm and vim which was a marked contrast to the demeanor they had displayed earlier in the afternoon.
Merriwell became so interested in the practice that he delayed longer than he had intended. The result was that he had barely time for a hasty shower in the dressing rooms of the club, which was followed by a dash back to the hotel where he swallowed his dinner at a speed which was ruinous to his digestion. Even at that, it lacked only five minutes of seven when the turned into the drive and stopped the Wizard at the entrance of Orren Fairchilds’ costly and beautiful residence, in the most exclusive section of Forest Hills.
“Doesn’t look much like the home of a man who cares for nothing but business and baseball,” he thought, as he ran up the marble steps and pushed the electric button.
The door was promptly opened by an impressive butler, who ushered the Yale man into the drawing room.
“Mr. Fairchilds is at dinner,” he announced, “but he will be through directly.”
Dick took out the card on which Roger Clingwood had written simply, “Introducing Richard Merriwell, of Yale,” and handed it to the man.
“Will you give this to him when he has finished,” he requested.
“Very good, sir,” returned the butler. “Will you be seated, sir.”