“He can’t get here until to-morrow,” he explained. “Held up by a wreck on the road.”
Niles took the telegram in silence, and, as he read it, his face shadowed.
“Well, what do you think of that?” he muttered, as he crumpled it in his hand. “To-morrow! And look at the bunch that’s here to-day, expecting to see something good. Coming thicker every minute, too.”
He glanced down the drive where several cars were in sight, heading toward the clubhouse.
“Wouldn’t that drive you to the batty house!” he went on. “I suppose it’s up to yours truly to get busy and announce that there ‘won’t be no race.’”
His eyes, full of an expression of whimsical chagrin, roved slowly over the crowd which had hastily gathered at the approach of Sartoris, until they rested on Dick Merriwell’s face.
The next moment a gleam of hope had leaped into them, and Niles sprang up the steps to the Yale man’s side.
“Say, what’s the matter with your taking Layton’s place, old fellow, and saving my rap?” he asked eagerly.
Merriwell smiled a little.
“It would be rather difficult to take his place,” he said slowly. “Layton is one of the best milers in the country, and it’s a long time since I’ve done any running.”