"Ah, Mr. Merriwell, I would like to speak with you," said Pierson in a manner that was not exactly unfriendly.
Frank remembered that the fellow who chased him the night before had promised to see him again, but he had thought at the time that the man did not mean it. Now he wondered what in the world Pierson could want.
"Yes, sir," said Merriwell, stopping and bowing respectfully.
"I understand that you are something of a sprinter," said Pierson as he surveyed the freshman critically. "A—ah—friend of mine told me so."
"Well, I don't know, but I believe I can run fairly well," replied Frank, with an air of modesty.
"My friend is a very good judge of runners, and he says you're all right. In doing so he settled a point in my mind. I have been watching your ball playing in practice this fall, and I have arrived at the conclusion that you have good stuff in you if you do not get the swelled head. Young man, the swelled head is one of the worst things with which a youth can be afflicted. When he gets it for fair it is likely to be his ruin."
Pierson addressed Frank as if he were a father speaking to a boy. Frank felt that the junior was patronizing to a certain extent, but the fellow's manner of stopping him on the campus was so remarkable that it more than overbalanced his air of superiority.
Wondering what Pierson could be driving at, Frank kept silent and listened.
"Now, I have a fancy," said the baseball magnate, "that you are rather level headed. Still, the best of them get it sometimes, and that is why I am warning you."
Pierson spoke deliberately, still looking hard at the freshman, who waited quietly.