He was so blown up with self-satisfaction that he nearly collided with Arthur Huntley without seeing him.
“What’s the matter with you, Holl?” demanded the Buffalo man, grasping his arm. “Have you gone daft? You were grinning like a hyena and muttering to yourself. Came near butting me over. Have you been tippling?”
“No, but I’m blooming near choked for a drink, Arthur. Let’s have one. I’ll tell you something that will make you grin like a hyena, too.”
“I don’t like to be seen going into a saloon here on the main street. Step down this way.”
On a side street they entered a saloon.
“What are you doing here in town?” asked Hollingsworth, expressing surprise for the first time. “I supposed you would be out pretending to get familiar with the course.”
“I had some business, and I took this as the best time to do it when there would be no one to see me and get inquisitive.”
They stood up to the bar and ordered whisky.
There was only one bartender in the place, and, after serving them, he gave them no further attention, which permitted them to talk in low tones without fearing that they would be overheard.
“I’m going to take no chances with this man Merriwell,” said Huntley. “I propose to make sure he’ll not win that trophy. I want it, and I’m going to have it.”