Brose Stovebridge dropped down in a chair beside his friend Marston and pulled out his cigarette case.
“Have one?” he invited, extending it to the other.
Marston selected a cigarette languidly.
“How did this fellow Merriwell happen to honor the club with his presence to-day?” he inquired sarcastically.
Stovebridge struck a match and held it to the other’s cigarette; then, lighting his own, he sank back in the chair.
“He’s Clingwood’s friend, I believe,” he answered with apparent indifference. “You speak as though you didn’t like him.”
“I don’t,” snapped Marston. “I hate him—hate the whole brood.”
The blond fellow raised his eyebrows.
“I didn’t know you’d ever met him,” he commented. “You certainly didn’t greet him as though you had ever laid eyes on him before.”
“I haven’t,” the other said bitterly. “I know his brother—that’s enough.”