“It’s Merriwell,” he said, smiling. “Quick! Give me a towel and some water. I’ll get rid of this stuff while we talk. I’ve got my cold-cream jar in my pocket.”
Pushing the bewildered Kenny before him, he entered the room and closed the door.
“Hustle, boy!” he exclaimed. “A wet towel first, and then we’ll go at the other.”
Still dazed, but under the influence of Dick’s dominating personality, Kenny brought the moistened towel, which Merriwell snatched from his hands. Already he had rubbed cold cream over his face. With the first vigorous rub off came the eyebrows and most of the paint. Kenny gasped as the familiar face of his friend appeared swiftly and strangely. Then Dick plunged into his story, for there was no time to lose.
“This Clarence Carr,” he began rapidly; “you’ve been pretty chummy with him lately, haven’t you?”
Kenny looked astonished.
“Why, he’s been in to see me several——”
“Exactly,” Dick cut in. “Talked football a lot, didn’t he? Said you were being badly used on the team, I’ll bet? Perhaps he said you should have been captain?”
The quarter back’s jaw dropped at this volley of questions. A rush of color stained his face.
“Why, how—how—did you——”