“Phwat sort av sbort do yez think they can scare up here?” asked Barney, with a trace of contempt in his voice. “It’s croquet we moight play, but thot’s altogither too excoiting.”
“Yaw,” grunted Hans; “dot growkay likes me, for id don’d peen so much drouble to blay him. Der balls can knock me apoud shust so easy as nefer vas.”
“Frank and Jack seem to be enjoying some mild sport,” said Harry, as the click of billiard balls and Merriwell’s infectious laugh came from the open windows of a large summerhouse in the shrubbery close at hand.
“Those fellows never seem to care about resting,” grunted Browning. “They will wear themselves out long before they are old men, unless they let up in their wild career.”
All of the boys had reached Springbrook Farm, and Toots was taking care of their wheels. They had been left to themselves for a time, while Preston St. Ives and Kenneth went away to see that proper arrangements were made for the entertainment of their guests.
It had not taken Frank and Jack long to find the billiard table and get into a game, pulling off their jackets to it, as if they were in deadly earnest.
As the boys lolled there in the shade, they saw Harry Harden and Iva St. Ives come down a walk and pass near them, chatting and laughing, seeming well satisfied with each other’s society.
At a distance behind them, taking care not to be seen, Stephen Fenton stole along, keeping jealous watch of them.
“Aisy, b’ys,” warned Barney, speaking softly. “Take a look at th’ spalpane through th’ bresh here. It’s a dirruty face he has, or me name’s not Mulloy.”
“That’s what he has,” nodded Hodge, who took an instant dislike to Fenton. “Who is he? Is that the fellow who was with Miss St. Ives?”