“Hello, who’s ‘Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.’?” asked Pete, holding up the scrap of paper rescued from Two Spot, and which now proved to be torn from the program of the Boston indoor meeting.
“I don’t know; why?” asked Allan.
“I used to know a fellow of that name out in Colorado. He was sort of studying mining. What does ‘N. Y. A. C.’ mean?”
“New York Athletic Club. It’s probably the same fellow. I remember him now. He was the chap that thought Rindgely was me.”
“Eh?” asked Pete. “How was that?”
So Allan told him, and Pete grew very thoughtful as the short narrative progressed. When Allan had finished he asked:
“I suppose these fellows that do stunts at the Boston meet go to pretty near all of them, don’t they?”
“Oh, I don’t know; a good many, I guess. Why?”
“Just wondering,” answered Pete. “Come on and send that telegram. If you address it to the president or treasurer or something, it will do, won’t it?”
“I’ll send it to the chairman of the Athletic Committee,” said Allan, seizing his hat. “I’m glad you thought of it, Pete. You’re some good in the world, after all, aren’t you?”