Under Gardiner’s direction, Dick drove the Wizard through the entrance and up to the veranda, where a number of young fellows in baseball suits were congregated.
“Hello, Glen,” one of them called out, as the party came up the steps. “We’d about given you up. Thought you were lost, or something.”
“It’s about time you showed up,” another said rather sharply. “Practice ought to have begun half an hour ago. I’ve got a date at five o’clock, which I propose to keep.”
He was a tall, dark, rather good-looking fellow, who was evidently quite aware of the fact, and as he spoke his full, red lips were curved in a slight sneer.
Gardiner flushed a little at the other’s tone, but otherwise paid no attention to it.
“I know that, Morrison,” he said pleasantly; “but I guess we can make up the lost time. Fellows, I want you to meet Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale pitcher, who has been so good as to say he’d coach us a little for the game to-morrow.”
A suspicious gleam flashed into Morrison’s eyes as he extended a languid hand.
“Glad to meet you,” he drawled. “Merriwell, did you say? You go to Yale, do you?”
This assumption of ignorance was affectation, pure and simple. The Forest Hills pitcher knew perfectly well who Dick Merriwell was, but he thought it might irritate the Yale man if he pretended never to have heard of him.
It had, however, no such effect.