“Mornings like this make life worth living,” he reflected contentedly. “I’ll wager that if folks knew how good these early spring mornings were, they’d go to bed earlier and get up earlier. It’s worth all the rest of the day!”
He sprawled out comfortably. He was still weary with his stiff game of the previous afternoon, and his long evening following, and soon realized that if he sat here very long he would be fast asleep once more. So, after five minutes, he forced himself to rise.
“I never thought I’d be getting lazy!” he murmured. “Well, down to the river and have a quick dip, then a rest on the long grass, and back to rout Clan out in time for breakfast.”
He paused as he reached the steps, for he caught sight of a solitary figure that seemed to be approaching the Morton House.
The figure was that of a farmer, but this signified nothing in Carsonville, where every one owned farms or orchards, or else worked in them. The man was tall, round-shouldered, and his face was decorated with a yellowish wisp of beard. He seemed to be a powerful fellow, Chip thought.
As he approached the hotel, Merry caught sight of the man’s face. It was not exactly a pleasant one, for the eyes were very close set, and there was a general look of shrewd cunning about the man which was not reassuring.
Frank would not have noticed him, had the man not been inspecting him rather closely as he drew near. It occurred to Merry that the fellow might be looking for him.
“Good morning!” he exclaimed. “This is certainly great spring weather, eh?”
“Purty good,” and the man looked him over curiously. “Say, mister, mebbe you kin tell me if there’s a feller at the hotel by the name o’ Merriwell? Frank Merriwell, I guess the front part of it is.”
Merry wondered. Without any undue self-glorification, he thought it odd that the man did not know him, for every soul in town had witnessed the game of the previous day. He himself had come in for a good deal of attention.