“He is,” returned the older man. “He trains with a crowd that I’m not at all in sympathy with, but, for all that, he’s not a bad fellow; crackerjack tennis player, and has a splendid record for long distance running. He keeps himself in fair training and doesn’t lush as much as most of his friends do.”
“I see,” Dick said thoughtfully.
This did not sound at all like a fellow who would run down a child and never stop to see how badly she was hurt. As a rule, good athletes are not cowards, though he had known exceptions.
At the same time, Stovebridge’s actions had been suspicious. Dick had not failed to notice his consternation at the sight of the cap, though he had quickly recovered himself and his explanation had been plausible enough.
Later, during Merriwell’s conversation with him, the fellow’s agitation had been palpable. That he was laboring under a tremendous mental strain, the Yale man was certain. Of course, the cause of it might have been something quite different, but to Dick it looked very much as though Brose Stovebridge knew a good deal more about the accident than would appear.
And he had come to the club that morning alone in a red car!
All at once Dick became conscious that some one had paused on the drive quite close to the veranda and was looking at him.
As he raised his head quickly, he saw that it was the same dark-haired, sullen youth he had passed as he came out of the farmhouse that morning.
To Dick’s astonishment the fellow’s eyes were fixed on him with a look of fierce, malignant hatred which was unmistakable. His fingers twitched convulsively and his whole attitude was one of consuming rage.
As Merriwell looked up, the other seemed to control himself with an effort, and, turning his head away, slouched on along the drive.