The Yale man looked puzzled.
“It isn’t possible we’ve ever met before,” he said quickly. “You’re not the sort of man I’d be likely to forget in a hurry.”
The stranger laughed.
“We’ve never met, though I’ve tried to meet you a number of times,” he laughed. “But I’ve seen you more than once. I can’t think why I didn’t recognize you at once. I suppose it’s because I’ve never had a really good, close look at you before. It has always been a long-distance glimpse from the bleachers or the grand stand out on the athletic field, and you know how football paraphernalia disguises a fellow.
“By Jove! I’m glad I was Johnny-on-the-spot just now, even if I did nearly knock you down. My name is Austin Demarest, and I certainly am glad to meet you.”
He held out a slim, brown hand with such an air of pleasure and camaraderie that Merriwell could not help a feeling of satisfaction as he clasped it in his own.
“And I you, Mr. Demarest,” he returned quickly. “I have a notion that I could like you a lot if I ever had a chance. Perhaps that sounds rather conceited, though.”
“Sort of in the nature of self-praise, eh?” chuckled Demarest. “It would be tough if a fellow couldn’t get along pretty well with himself, wouldn’t it?”
Unconsciously they had turned and were walking slowly along Chapel Street. Each one seemed unable to refrain from throwing occasional swift glances at the other, as if to satisfy himself that the odd resemblance was really a concrete fact and not some chance figment of the imagination.
Presently their eyes met and both burst out laughing.