The spot was an ideal one, and commanded a view of the lake and the town. A glade, covered with short grass, opened on the side toward the village, being flanked by wooded slopes. Near at hand were the cottages of the Blue Mountain Club. They were handsomer and more expensive than those of the other club, but not more comfortable. Across one corner of the glade, and dipping down into the dark woods, ran the path on which Merriwell’s bicycle had collided with and crushed the violin.
Ward Hammond and his companions were already on the ground, and Hammond was looking at his watch as Merriwell’s party came up.
“I didn’t know but you fellows had backed out,” he declared, with a sneer, snapping the gold case together and dropping the watch into his pocket.
Jack Diamond flushed and pulled out his own timepiece.
“We’ve ten minutes to spare, if my watch is right!” he asserted.
“Of course your watch is right!” was the suggestive retort.
“I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I turned my watch back for any reason,” said Diamond, gulping down his growing anger.
“You ought to know that I wouldn’t insinuate such a thing against any member of the Lilywhites?” Hammond sarcastically purred, but in softer tones.
Frank Merriwell was stringing his bow and glancing off toward the target. It was a thirty-pound lancewood bow, with horn notches at the tips, a handsome bow, and a good one, as he had reason to know.
The target was set at a supposed distance of sixty yards from the archers. It was a flat, circular pad of twisted straw, four feet in diameter, and it was faced with cloth, on which was painted a central yellow disk, called the gold. Around this disk was drawn a band of red, and next to it a band of blue, then one of black, and finally one of white.