Frank Merriwell's Champions; Or, All in the Game — Inside the Classic

you say, fellows?” questioned Merriwell, turning toward his companions.

“Av it’s thim chumps upon the hill!” exclaimed Barney Mulloy.

“I think I’d like that, by thutter!” declared Ephraim Gallup.

“You pets my poots, dot voult pe a bicnic!” asserted Hans Dunnerwust, the jolly-looking Dutch boy.

The others assented, each after his own peculiar manner.

“When do you want us to come down?” asked Frank.

“Right now, this minute, if you will!” cried Colson’s companion, who had hitherto maintained a grave silence. “It’s lonesome as a graveyard down there. And you’ll want to do some practicing! Can you handle the bow and arrow?”

Philip Tetlow’s face lighted up with such fine enthusiasm, and his delight was so manifest, that Frank could hardly restrain a laugh.

“We must see the landlord of the hotel first,” said Merriwell, “for we have already registered here, and he may interpose objections to our summary leave-taking. But you may count on it that we will be with you without much delay.”

Two hours later, Merriwell and the entire Yale Combine were snugly installed in the cottages of the Lake Lily Athletic Club.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have another one of those infernal chills,” grumbled Browning, as, with a blanket drawn over him, he reclined in a hammock and looked across the water toward the village. “I guess I shall never get that Arkansas malaria out of my system, though I’ve taken enough quinine to start a drug store.”

Rattleton cast a look of mock anxiety at the rather flimsy walls.

“I say, Browning, when you get to shaking right good, as you did that other time, you’ll have your cot put out under the trees, won’t you? Just for the safety of the rest of us, you know.”

“No, I won’t!” Browning growled. “If I bring the house down on myself, like old Samson, it will delight me to bury all the rest of you in the ruins.”

“Say, fellows,” cried the irrepressible Rattleton, “why is Browning like a member of a certain well-known religious organization?”

“Oh, go chase yourself out of here!” begged Bruce. “I’m already sick, and your weak jokes make me sicker.”

“It’s because he’s a Shaker.”

Browning groaned and turned his face toward the wall.

“Won’t some one kindly kill that idiot for me?” he pleaded.

Frank Merriwell came into the room, holding a handsome lancewood bow and a sheaf of arrows.

“If we are going to meet Ward Hammond and his Blue Mountain boys day after to-morrow,” he said, surveying the lounging group, “it strikes me that it would be well for the new members of Lake Lily Athletic Club to get in a little archery practice.”

To this there was a general assent, and the entire party prepared to leave the room, with the exception of Bruce Browning, who shivered and drew the blanket closer about him as they got up to go.

Out by the lake there was a level stretch of greensward. Here a target had been set up, and the members of the club had practiced at archery.

Both the new and the old members of the Lake Lily Athletic Club practiced with the bow so faithfully in the limited time given them that when they climbed to the archery ground on the wooded crest of Blue Mountain they felt that they would be able to give Ward Hammond and his friends a hard contest, if nothing more, though Hammond had been heard publicly to declare that the Lilywhites’ new members would add nothing to the strength of the club.

The spot was an ideal one, and commanded a view of the lake and the town. A glade, covered with short grass, opened on the side toward the village, being flanked by wooded slopes. Near at hand were the cottages of the Blue Mountain Club. They were handsomer and more expensive than those of the other club, but not more comfortable. Across one corner of the glade, and dipping down into the dark woods, ran the path on which Merriwell’s bicycle had collided with and crushed the violin.

Ward Hammond and his companions were already on the ground, and Hammond was looking at his watch as Merriwell’s party came up.

“I didn’t know but you fellows had backed out,” he declared, with a sneer, snapping the gold case together and dropping the watch into his pocket.

Jack Diamond flushed and pulled out his own timepiece.

“We’ve ten minutes to spare, if my watch is right!” he asserted.

“Of course your watch is right!” was the suggestive retort.