As Niles turned quickly, his hand outstretched, the worried look on his face gave place to one of surprised interest.
“Not Dick Merriwell, of Yale?” he asked eagerly.
Dick smiled as he took the other’s hand.
“I happen to be,” he said quietly.
He felt a sudden liking for this homely young fellow with the honest eyes, who looked as though he was square down to the very bone.
“Well, say!” Niles exclaimed, as he gripped Dick’s hand and worked it up and down like a pump handle. “If this isn’t a little bit of all right. I’ve seen you play ball, and I’ve seen you run, but I never had a chance of shaking hands before. What are you doing away out here?”
“Touring with some friends of mine,” Dick answered smiling. “I’d like you to meet them.”
He introduced Buckhart, Tucker and Bigelow, and for a few minutes they stood talking together.
“I don’t know what we’ll do if Layton throws us down,” Niles said anxiously. “We’ve made so much talk about the race, and there’ll be an awful mob here to see it. Oh, there’s Sartoris! Now we’ll find out something. Excuse me, will you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he dashed down the steps toward a car that had just driven up. Its occupant, a tall, bare-headed fellow in tennis flannels, sprang out, waving a yellow envelope in his hand.