“Two Martinis—dry,” Marston said, unfolding his napkin. “Bring them right away.”
“Not any for me,” Stovebridge put in hastily. “I’ve got to run this afternoon.”
“Oh, shucks! What’s one cocktail?” expostulated the other. “Just put a little ginger into you.”
But Stovebridge persisted in his refusal; already he had taken considerably more stimulant than he felt was wise. So when the cocktails came Marston drank them both.
While his friend was writing out the order, Stovebridge glanced idly about the well-filled room. He gave a slight start as his eyes met those of Dick Merriwell, who was seated with his party three or four tables away. The Yale man was looking at him with a certain steady scrutiny that was a little disconcerting. There was no gleam of friendliness in his dark eyes, but rather a cold, steely glitter. His fine mouth was set in a hard line, curving disdainfully at the corners, as though he were regarding something beneath his contempt. It was not a pleasant expression, and, despite his belief that the other could really prove nothing, Stovebridge could not help feeling a little uneasy.
“Who are you staring at?”
Marston’s drawling voice roused Stovebridge, and, turning quickly, he looked at his friend.
“Merriwell,” he breathed softly.
“Bah!” snapped the other. “He can’t do anything. We’ll put a spoke in his wheel. For goodness’ sake, Brose, do brace up and forget it!”
Stovebridge made an effort to do so, but all the time he was eating lunch he had an uneasy feeling that those cold eyes were still fixed upon him, and it was only by the most determined exertion of will power that he kept himself from looking again toward the table where Roger Clingwood and his guests seemed to be enjoying themselves so thoroughly.