He took the card and disappeared, while Merriwell dropped into a chair and glanced around the great room, which was furnished richly, but in perfect taste.
The next moment some curtains at the other end were thrust violently aside and a man entered hurriedly.
“Dick Merriwell, as I live!” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched hand. “You haven’t changed a particle since I saw you twirl years ago at New Haven. Jove, that was a game! My boy, I’m very glad to meet you.”
He was short and slim, with a brisk manner and springy walk. His thin hair and heavier moustache were slightly tinged with gray; nevertheless he certainly was not much over thirty-seven or eight, and with his healthy brown skin and alert, twinkling brown eyes, he did not appear even that. Dick took an instant liking for him as he shook his hand heartily.
“I hope I haven’t interrupted your dinner,” he said. “They told me you had it early.”
“Not at all, not at all,” returned the mine owner briskly. “I do have it early. I always make a point of attending the evening practice of my team. Have you seen Clingwood lately? I haven’t laid eyes on him in over a year. Does he still play golf?”
Merriwell smiled at the half-contemptuous tone in which he brought out the last word.
“Yes, he’s an enthusiast. Says there is no game like it.”
“Bah!” snorted Fairchilds. “An old woman’s game. That’s the only fault I have to find with Clingwood—he doesn’t like baseball. How any sane, healthy man can stand up and say he isn’t interested in the greatest game on earth—the only game, to my mind, that’s worth the time and trouble that’s spent on it—I can’t understand.”
“I hear you’ve got a great team up at the mine,” Dick remarked.