“I’ve never heard that he is regarded as an especial wonder as a runner,” grunted the stout man.
“Never mind what you have heard; he has a reputation that frightens people from risking any money on other contestants when he takes part. I came here to back Huntley, but I’m not risking my good money against Merriwell.”
“You doped Huntley to win?” asked the man in black, smiling. “Why, man, if Merriwell wasn’t entered I’d take the field and give you big odds. I’d almost go you even, if necessary, that Pope would cut the mustard.”
Hollingsworth was keenly interested, and he did not hesitate to “butt in.”
“Gentlemen,” he said, “Merriwell is much over-rated. I don’t believe he could win if he ran, but he will not run.”
The trio turned and stared hard at him.
“Hello!” grunted the stout man. “I believe it’s the fellow who was pointed out to me as the trainer of the Ashport squad.”
“I am Herbert Hollingsworth,” stated the Englishman, speaking slowly and taking care not to lose that troublesome initial letter from his name.
“What makes you think Merriwell will not run?” inquired the slim man.
Hollingsworth hesitated a trifle, and then said: