Without another word he returned to his table, and a moment later Morrison and Hewett passed out through the bar and into the street.
“I—think—I’ll go home,” stammered the latter. “It’s getting late.”
His weak face was a little pale and his hands shook nervously.
“Well, so-long, Hew,” his companion said carelessly. “See you at the game to-morrow.”
Left alone, he strolled aimlessly down the street until he came to the entrance of the Burlington Hotel. There he hesitated for a few moments and finally went up the steps and into the lobby.
As he did so he gave a sudden start. Across the room, seated sidewise on a big leather sofa, was Dick Merriwell. His back was toward the entrance and he was deep in conversation with some one whose face Morrison could not distinguish.
The sofa was one of those large double ones with a high back between the two seats, and, almost without realizing why he did it, Morrison walked softly across the lobby, and sat down on the other side with an air of affected carelessness.
Merriwell was talking, and Morrison could distinguish the words quite plainly.
“You never saw such a baseball crank in your life. I don’t believe he thinks of anything else out of business hours. He says if we come up to the mine at nine to-morrow he’ll have us shown all around.”
Morrison gave a start and his dark eyes gleamed.