Merritt was a man of about twenty-four, blonde, thin and "race-horsey" in build. He had the reputation of having been a college man and champion runner, until, losing prestige and reputation through dissipation, he had been forced to enlist. It had proved the best thing he ever did. Four years in the navy had given him a pink, clear skin, a bright eye and an erect carriage. But it had not taken a furtive sneer out of his expression, nor altered his disposition, which was mean and crafty. His bearing, however, was rather distinguished, with a certain swagger, and his talk showed that he was an educated man.
"Did you have much to do with them on their first cruise?" inquired Merritt's companion, Ray Chance.
"No, they were both enlisted men. But they managed to give a black eye, in a figurative way, to a good friend of mine."
"You mean Bill Kennell?"
"Yes. I hear that he's been pardoned from prison—political pull. But that doesn't alter the fact that they accomplished his downfall."
"Well, I never liked either of them. I heard about them by reputation before I came to the Manhattan from the Dixie. I like them still less from what I've seen of them on board here. I think this fellow Strong is a big faker."
"Yes. I'm sick and disgusted with him and the airs he gives himself. His dear chum and inseparable is almost as bad. I'd like to take a fall out of both of them."
"You'll get your chance to-morrow in the squadron's games. You can beat Ned Strong running the best day he ever stepped on a track."
"I ought to be able to, and I mean to do it, too. I don't like bluffs, and this chap Strong is a false alarm if ever there was one."
"Say, you fellows," suddenly interpolated a voice, "if you think Strong is such a bluff, why don't you tell him so?"