“Not very well, thank you,” returned Fillmore. “Don’t get a notion that you’re a Solomon. I’m playing my own game with the young lady of the dark eyes. She can’t fool me a great deal, Tom. It’s rather interesting sport. I’m taking care not to let myself get too far gone, for I know it’s hopeless. She’s engaged and soon to be married.”
Hackett whistled.
“Engaged, eh? But then you know more than one engagement has been smashed. You might cut the fellow out. Who is he?”
“None other than Frank Merriwell, the former great Yale athlete.”
Hackett whistled again.
“That fellow, eh? I’ve met some chaps who seemed to think him the wizard of the world. Let me see, hasn’t he been touring lately with an athletic team and simply eating everything up that he came across?”
“Yes, he’s been covering himself with glory in every department of sport. What do you think he’s doing now?”
“Give it up.”
“Organizing a lacrosse team, with the idea of going after the amateur championship of the United States. He wants a game with us. Of course we don’t have to play him, but I understand he expects to have Onslaw and several other Harvard players on his team.”