At ten minutes of nine that evening, Paul Pierson rapped on the door of Merriwell's room, and was invited to walk in. He was in a rig for running, and he immediately said:
"Come, come! get out of those duds, Merriwell. You are to run with me to-night."
"How far?"
"From one to five miles, as I take a fancy."
"Oh, well, I won't change my clothes for a little thing like that," said Frank, carelessly.
"You'd better," declared Paul. "I'm going to give you a hustle, and you'll find you can keep up better if you are in a suitable rig."
"I'll take the chances of keeping just as I am."
Pierson's teeth came together with a click. He did not like that, although he tried not to show it.
"The fellow thinks he can outrun me on a long pull, as he happened to do so for a short distance once on a time," he thought. "I'll see if I can fool him."
Pierson considered himself an excellent long-distance runner, although he seldom took part in races, realizing that, good though he was, there were still better men.