“Nix,” Buckhart said decidedly. “Not for me.”
Tucker and Bigelow both shook their heads.
“I used to flip the pasteboards in my younger days,” the former grinned; “but I’ve reformed.”
“Why not just sit here and do nothing?” Merriwell asked. “I feel that I’d enjoy an hour’s loaf.”
Bigelow evidently agreed with him, for he sank instantly into one of the wicker chairs, with a sigh of thankfulness.
The others followed his example, and their host took out a well-filled cigar case and passed it around. Tucker accepted one; the others declined.
“Layton ought to show up soon,” Clingwood remarked, settling back in his chair and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I believe he’s due in Wilton at eleven forty-seven.”
“Layton?” Dick exclaimed interestedly. “Not Charlie Layton, the Columbia man?”
“That’s the boy. Know him?”
“I’ve met him. He’s one of the best milers in the country. Stovebridge must be pretty good to run against him.”