He paused on his way across the veranda to the hotel entrance. The figure in the chair, at the far end of the veranda, had caught the newcomer’s eye. Muttering an exclamation, he started toward the youth with the bowed head and hopeless air.
“Hello, Chip, old pal!” the lad cried. “What are you doing out here all by your lonesome?”
Merriwell, at the sound of that voice, was on his feet in a twinkling.
“Darrel, by Jove!” he exclaimed, happily surprised. “What brings you to Ophir, Curly?”
“Business,” laughed Darrel. “I’ve got a letter for you from Colonel Hawtrey.”
“I hope there’s no bad news in the letter. Hang it all, I’ve had enough bad news for one night!”
“Nothing serious, Chip?” queried Darrel solicitously.
“I guess it wouldn’t strike you as being serious,” Merry returned, with a short laugh. “Say, Curly, how’d you like to have Ophir present you with that game to-morrow?”
“I wouldn’t like it. I don’t want Ophir to present us with anything but the hardest game we Gold Hillers ever played. Do that, Chip, and I’ll be blamed if I care who wins. But read this letter,” Darrel broke off, handing the missive to Merriwell. “When you have done that, we’ll hold a powwow. I’ve got something to tell you, pard, and like enough it will surprise you. I don’t think the colonel has written anything that will give you much of a jolt.”
“I’ve had my one big surprise for to-night. Curly,” said Merriwell, with a rueful laugh, “so I guess that anything you can spring won’t take me off my feet.”