Stovebridge wheeled around with a sudden tightening of his throat and saw the grinning face of Bob Jennings, son of the haberdasher at Wilton, who had been in the store when he bought that wretched cap the day before. Here was the first complication.
Stovebridge forced himself to smile.
“Left it at home, Bob,” he returned carelessly. “This was the first one I picked up as I came out this morning.”
In the pause which followed Roger Clingwood stepped forward.
“I didn’t notice you were here, Stovebridge,” he said pleasantly. “I’d like you to meet my friend Merriwell, who has come up with some of his classmates to spend a day or two at the club.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” Stovebridge said with an air of good fellowship. “I know Mr. Merriwell very well by reputation, but have never had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“Dick, this is Brose Stovebridge,” Clingwood went on. “We claim for him—and I think justly—the title of champion sprinter of the middle West.”
Merriwell smiled as he held out his hand.
“Very glad indeed to meet you, Mr. Stovebridge,” he said heartily.
Stovebridge gave a sudden gasp and faltered; then he took the proffered hand limply.