The others came up, Frank mounted his wheel, and they all rode along together, chatting pleasantly. Frank was questioned, and he told of his trip across the continent and back, arousing Kenneth St. Ives’ interest.
“Well, you must have had sport!” Kenneth exclaimed. “I should have enjoyed that. Say, father, we must get up something in the way of sport while they are at Springbrook. Can’t we have a hunt?”
“It’s too early in the season, my son,” smiled Mr. St. Ives.
“I don’t know about that,” declared Kenneth. “We’re liable to have a frost any morning now. It is chilly at times for this season. Perhaps to-morrow morning——”
“The Meadowfair Club visits us to-morrow, you know.”
“I had forgotten that. So much the better! If Mr. Merriwell and his friends will stay, we’ll find some sort of sport to amuse them.”
The top of the hill was reached, and then Springbrook Farm was pointed out, lying on a hillside two miles distant. It was a beautiful place. The great stables seemed modern, but the house was an immense colonial mansion, surrounded by tall trees. The farming land was a broad prospect of cleared land, upon which were great meadows and small groves. Cattle and horses were to be seen, and it had the appearance of a stock or dairy farm.
“There is the place, Mr. Merriwell!” cried Kenneth St. Ives; “and a more beautiful spot is not to be found in all Pennsylvania.”
Frank did not wonder at Kenneth’s enthusiasm.
Not far from the old mansion was a small lake, with a boathouse on the shore, and some boats lying near.