Roger Clingwood’s cold, cutting voice interrupted him:
“We have no champion, Mr. Layton. Mr. Stovebridge will soon be no longer a member of the club.”
A gasp of astonishment went up from the listening members, and a feeling of utter desolation and despair swept over Stovebridge, who turned his back swiftly on the veranda.
“And if he were a member,” supplemented Niles, “he would no longer be champion. Dick Merriwell holds that honor at present. I have no doubt he will race you any time you wish.”
A look of pleased surprise flashed into Layton’s face as he caught sight of Dick for the first time, and, stepping forward quickly, he took the Yale man’s hand.
“Awfully glad to see you, old fellow,” he said warmly.
Then he turned to Niles.
“A race between us would be pretty much of a farce,” he smiled. “Apparently you don’t know him as well as I do. If there’s one fellow I’ll pull my colors to, it’s Merriwell of Yale.”
Roger Clingwood stepped forward and touched Niles’ arm.
“Take him upstairs and lock him in the end bedroom while I telephone the police,” he said in a low tone. “Much as I loathe the fellow, there’s no reason why he should be put to needless humiliation.”