As they came out to the veranda after lunch, Roger Clingwood pulled out his watch impatiently.
“Almost two!” he exclaimed. “What in the world is the matter with Layton?”
He turned to a short, pleasant-faced, youngish-looking fellow who, also watch in hand, was looking anxiously down the drive.
“Heard anything of Charlie Layton, Niles?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” the other answered petulantly. “I can’t understand what’s delayed him. He promised to be here soon after twelve, and the race was to be pulled off at three. People are beginning to come already.”
“Sartoris is there to meet him, I believe,” Clingwood remarked.
“Yes, and I tried just now to get him on the phone, but couldn’t.”
Jack Niles shut his watch with a snap and shoved it back in his pocket irritably. He was extremely homely. Every feature seemed to be either too large or too small, or not placed right on his face; but for all that there was something very attractive in his expression, and in the straightforward, honest directness of his brown eyes. His clothes were loud almost to eccentricity, and it was quite evident that he was a thorough-going, out-and-out sport.
As he started to walk away, Roger Clingwood caught his arm.
“Oh, by the way, Jack,” he said suddenly, “I want you to meet my friend Merriwell. Dick, this is Jack Niles, to whose efforts is due the fact that we still occasionally have athletic events at the club.”