“Well, how does the sleuthing come on?” he chirped, as he dropped down on the bed. “What clues has the great Sherlock Holmes unearthed?”
“Not as many as I’d like, Thomas,” Dick smiled. “While I’m morally certain that Stovebridge is the man we’re looking for, I can’t quite prove it.”
Tucker’s eyes widened.
“Whew!” he whistled softly. “Stovebridge, eh? The great and only distance runner. Keep it up, Richard. There isn’t a man about these parts I’d rather see nailed. He thinks he’s just about the warmest baby that ever chased over a cinder path. You ought to have heard him blowing around after the race this afternoon, when anybody with the brains of a hen could see that you were the better man. It made me sick.”
Dick smiled. “He won fairly enough; but I would like to know how that stone got on the track—for it was a stone without any doubt.”
“Maybe that flabby, rum-soaked friend of his put it there,” suggested Tucker seriously. “He’s another one I’d like to sock in the jaw.”
Merriwell’s eyes twinkled as he got up and moved slowly toward the door.
“What’s the matter with you, Tommy?” he asked. “Seems to me you’re awfully savage to-night.”
“It’s my nature,” Tucker returned plaintively. “I really have the sweetest disposition you ever saw, but there are some men that rile me like a sour gooseberry.”
He gave a sigh and dropped back on the bed at full length with the air of one who was comfortably settling himself for a long stay.