“It looks like him front-to,” replied Slim, “except that this guy is about forty-five and has different features and has lost some of his hair and wears glasses—”
“Oh, for the love of mud, shut up, Slim! And do look around, can’t you? I tell you this is important.”
“I do wish I could feel it so,” said Slim exasperatingly, “but I just can’t get up any enthusiasm for the chase. Besides, it’s getting perilously close to chow time, and we’re going in the wrong direction and—”
“There he is!” Leonard left Slim abruptly and darted across the street, narrowly escaping the ignominy of being run down by a rattling flivver adorned with cherry-and-black pennants. Gordon Renneker had just emerged from a doorway above which hung a black-and-gold sign announcing “Olympic Lunch Room—Good Eats,” and still held in one hand the larger part of a cheese sandwich.
“Say, what the—” Renneker stared in amazement from Leonard to the sandwich now lying in unappetizing fragments on the sidewalk.
“Awfully sorry,” panted Leonard, “but you’re wanted at the hotel right away. Room 17.”
“I’m wanted? What for?” Leonard saw suspicion creeping into Renneker’s eyes.
“Mr. Cade and Mr. Fadden,” he answered quickly and glibly. “They told me to tell you they wanted to see you about the game right away.”
“Flattering,” said Renneker. “Oh, all right. Wait till I get another sandwich—”
“You mustn’t,” declared Leonard. “It’s almost lunch time, and they’re waiting for you, and they’ll be mad if you don’t come quick!” He pulled Renneker away from the lunch room doorway and guided him rapidly toward the hotel. From across the street a perplexed and insulted Slim watched them disappear.