About eleven Dick started up a covey of birds and became so interested in their pursuit that he forgot all about the time and was consequently late reaching the point of meeting.
When he came out of the bushes to the broad, rocky spur of the low mountain, he found the others seated near at hand busily engaged in devouring sandwiches.
“Better hustle, Richard, if you want anything,” Fitzgerald admonished, rather indistinctly. “We were so hungry we couldn’t wait another minute.”
Merriwell came forward and dropped down on the rock.
“How many?” Buckhart asked.
“Nine,” returned his chum.
“Great! That beats the record so far.”
“Where’s Jellison?” Dick asked suddenly.
He had been conscious of something or some one missing ever since he came out of the thicket.
Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders.