“Come ahead, fellows, and get ready,” Niles broke in briskly. “We’ve got just ten minutes to start on time.”
He took Dick’s arm and hustled him through to the dressing room, where he hunted up running trunks, shoes, and shirt; and in less than the allotted time, the Yale man was ready for the contest.
As they came out of the clubhouse and walked over to the track, Merriwell felt a thrill of the old enthusiasm. The well-kept track and the crowd of spectators thronging both sides made his blood course more swiftly and caused his eyes to sparkle.
They went directly to the starting point, where Stovebridge presently joined them. Niles, mounted on a stand, megaphone in hand, waved his arm for silence. When the hub-bub of talk and laughter had ceased he put the instrument to his lips.
“Gentlemen,” he declaimed, “I have to announce that Mr. Layton has been detained by a wreck and cannot reach the club this afternoon.”
A murmur of disappointment arose from the crowd, which was quickly stilled by another motion from Niles.
“I have, however,” he went on, “secured an efficient substitute in the person of Dick Merriwell, of Yale, who has kindly consented to run in order that we shall not be disappointed.”
As he jumped to the ground, the quick round of hearty applause, mingled with cheers, showed that Merriwell’s name was not unknown. Then the buzz of talk started up again with renewed vigor, as the judges and timekeepers consulted with Niles and arranged the details of the race.
Dick stood a little to one side of the mark, talking to Buckhart, whose face was aglow with enthusiasm.
“Lick the stuffing out of the coyote, pard,” urged Brad, in a low tone. “You can sure do it if you try.”