Soon it became evident that Bruce Browning had not lost his old-time push entirely. When there was something to arouse him, he could bestir himself and get to work in a marvelous manner, as long as it was not necessary for him to again go into training.

Browning knew Paul Pierson, who was one of the committee of arrangements for the coming tournament, and he knew that Pierson was well aware of Frank Merriwell's general ability. Bruce had heard Pierson express a belief that Merriwell was one of the persons who, by sheer determination and sand, as well as ability, was bound to win in almost everything he attempted.

Bruce went to Pierson immediately after leaving Merriwell's room. Pierson was one of the sort who seldom said much, and Browning left him without knowing whether he had made an impression or not.

Late that afternoon, however, Pierson accidentally met Frank, who was crossing the campus.

"I say, Merriwell," said Paul, in his abrupt manner, "can you run?"

"Some," answered Frank, sententiously.

"Hum!" grunted Pierson.

Then he looked Frank all over, as if he had never seen him before and was taking his physical measure.

"You keep yourself in the very best condition all the time, I see," he finally observed.

"Well I seldom do anything to abuse myself."

"Are you in training for a race?"

"Not exactly."

"How long would it take for you to put yourself in condition?"

"Possibly a week."

"What are you good for—a short dash, or a long run?"

"I think I can do either fairly well."

"Fairly well does not go at Yale, as you know, Merriwell. You must do things exceptionally well. You are altogether too modest. If something had not brought you out, nobody could have known you could do anything at all. You have been pushed in various ways by others, but you fail to push yourself."

"Oh, I do not go about blowing my own horn," said Frank, smiling.

"You will find you'll have to blow your own horn when you go into business, or my brother is a liar. He keeps hammering at me that the man who does not blow his horn is the fellow who gets left. To a large extent, it is that way here at Yale. The fellow who keeps still and sits back gets left. That's my sermon. I'm not going to say any more now. Get into training for a long run. I'll come round at nine this evening and go you a sprint of a mile or two, just to see how you show up."

That was all. Pierson turned and sauntered away, without another word.

Frank whistled softly, and smiled.

"This is Browning's work," he muttered. "Pierson takes things for granted. How does he know I will take any part in a race? He does not ask if I will, but he tells me to go to work and get into shape. He is coming round to-night to see how I show up. All right."

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.

Frank had on a loose thin shirt, and a light-weight suit of clothes. He caught up a cap, and announced that he was ready to go with Paul.

They went out, and soon were crossing the campus. Having arrived at a point quite outside the college grounds, Paul paused and said:

"We will start from here and make a run out into the country. I will set the pace going out, but when we turn to come back, it will be a case of the best man gets home first. The termination of the run will be your room."

"That is satisfactory," nodded Frank.

Far away a band of jolly students were singing "Stars of the Summer Night," their melodious voices making sweet music beneath the great elms. The soft breath of June came across the campus, seeming to gently bear the words of the beautiful song to their ears.

"Are you ready?" asked Pierson, sharply.

"All ready."

"Then here we go."

They were off, shoulder to shoulder.

Although Frank had not seemed to prepare for the run, he had put on his running shoes, feeling that he might absolutely need them.

Along the streets of New Haven they went, attracting but little attention, as it was not an uncommon sight at that season to see some of the college lads taking a night run in that manner.

They passed a group of fellows who were standing beneath a street light near a corner.

"Here!" softly exclaimed one of the group; "who are these chaps?"

The entire party turned to take a look at the runners.

"It's Pierson——"

"And Merriwell!"

"What did I tell you, Yates!" exclaimed Fred Flemming, a ring of satisfaction in his voice.

"Well, may I be kicked!" growled Duncan Yates, as he started after the two lads, who had passed and were scudding along the street at a steady trot.

"Flem seldom makes a mistake," murmured Tom Thornton.

"But Merriwell is not in his rig," said Andy Emery, the fourth one of the group.

"That doesn't make any difference," declared Flemming. "He is taking a run with Pierson, and that proves what I told Yates. You all know how that chap undermined me on the crew. I don't say that he can't row, mind you—I do not claim that I could have done any better than he did; but I do claim that he is full of such sneaking underhand tricks, and I knew he was trying for something when I saw him stop Pierson on the campus to-day."

Yates was silent, staring along the street, down which the two runners had disappeared.

"Come, old man!" cried Flemming, slapping Yates on the back, "let's go into Morey's and sit down, where we can have a drink and talk this matter over."

Duncan shook his head.

"I won't go in there," he said.

"Why not?"

"I am in training, you know, and somebody would see me drinking there. That would kick up some talk."

"Well, will you go anywhere?"

"Yes, I'll go somewhere that we can sit down in a quiet room, where there is no chance that fellows who know me will drop in. I feel just like having something."

"I know the very place," declared Flemming. "Come on."

Then the quartet moved away, Flemming leading.

In the meantime Merriwell and Pierson had continued on their way. As had been agreed, Pierson set the pace. At first he ran along at a gentle trot, but by the time the outskirts of New Haven were reached he had begun to increase his speed.

"Now," he thought, "I'll put Merriwell to the test, and I do not fancy he will be in condition to make a very hot run on the return."

Faster and faster went Paul, and still the lad at his side kept there with apparent ease. With their clinched hands held close to their breasts and their heads thrown back, they ran on and on.

There was a slice of a moon in the western sky, shedding a thin white light over the world. From far to the south came the shrill whistle of a locomotive, cutting through the air like a keen knife.

The road which Pierson had selected was one over which there was considerable travel, and it was in very fair condition.

Without appearing to do so, Paul slyly kept watch of Merriwell, wishing to see just how Frank stood the strain. He was forced to acknowledge that, for a time at least, Merriwell was standing it very well.

"Oh, he is endeavoring to show me how easy he can do it!" mentally exclaimed Paul. "Wait—wait a bit! I think I will give him a hot push for a bit."

Faster and faster ran Pierson, and soon he was rather gratified to hear Frank beginning to breathe heavily. Yes, although Paul had hoped that Merriwell would show up well, he did feel a momentary sense of satisfaction when it seemed that he was making the pace a hot one for his companion.

Then Frank began to lag. He did not fall far behind Paul, and still he seemed unable to keep his place at Pierson's side.

"I won't do a thing to him coming back!" decided Paul. "Browning was dead wrong. The fellow is capable of short dashes, but he is not the man for a long run. I am rather sorry."

At last, he decided that they had gone far enough into the country, and so he turned about, without stopping, calling to Frank:

"Now for the hustle into town, and let's see what you are made of, my boy. I am going to run away from you as if you were standing still."

"I wouldn't do that!" flung back Merriwell, as he wheeled about.

Somehow it seemed to Paul that there was a touch of sarcasm in the way Frank uttered the words. That aroused the committeeman still more, and he retorted:

"No, you wouldn't do it, because you couldn't; but I am going to."

"All right," laughed Frank. "I don't suppose there is any danger that somebody will steal me for my beauty if you leave me alone out here in the country. Go ahead and run away from me."

"Good-by."

"Good-by."

Then Pierson did run. He skimmed over the ground in a wonderful manner, but the sound of running feet clung close behind him, and, when he glanced over his shoulder, Merriwell was still there.

"Hanged if he doesn't hold on well!" mentally exclaimed Paul.

Then, as he glanced around, it began to seem that Merriwell was running with still greater ease than he had at any previous time. Somehow it appeared as if he was keeping close behind Pierson without any particular effort.

"You're doing well," Paul finally flung over his shoulder. "Can you keep it up?"

"I think so," was the half-laughing answer. "I am holding myself in so that I can make an attempt to follow you a short distance when you get ready to run away from me."

"Great smoke!" thought Paul. "Is he guying me? or does he fancy I have not been doing my best?"

After a little, he confessed:

"I am beginning to think that won't be an easy trick, Merriwell. You will not be far behind when we reach your room."

At this, Frank suddenly came up beside Paul.

"Judging by the way you talk, you are somewhat out of wind," he said.

"Not at all," declared Pierson.

"Then I presume you are in condition for a little dash?"

"Oh, of course! But you may beat yourself out if you crowd yourself too hard."

"Think so?"

"Sure. Better not."

"Oh, I think I'll chance it. Come on, old man, let's tear up some dust."

Then Frank spurted.

Pierson set his teeth and made a desperate effort to keep up, but, despite his determination not to fall behind, he found that Merriwell was steadily and surely drawing away.

"Come on," called Frank, in a rather tantalizing manner. "It can't be that you are going to let me run away from you?"

Paul did not answer.

"What's the matter?" called Frank again. "Are you ill?"

Still no answer.

"Well, you are not sociable at all," laughed the lad in advance, tauntingly. "I don't seem to like your company, and so I think I will move along. Good-by."

With that, Pierson could see that the tantalizing fellow actually made an increase of speed.

"Confound him!" grated Paul. "I believe he was fooling me all along when he seemed to be having a hard time to keep up. All that panting and heavy breathing was put on."

It was decidedly humiliating to be "jollied" in such a manner; but Paul found he could not hold his own with Frank, and he finally gave up the struggle. Still he continued to run on, thinking that the lad ahead would use up his wind by such a burst of speed, and believing there was a possibility of overtaking Merriwell before South Middle was reached.

This did not happen, however, and when Paul burst into Frank's room, he found Rattleton there, listening to a funny story that Merriwell was telling.

And Merriwell? He had his feet resting comfortably on the top of a table, while he lay back in an easy-chair, looking remarkably cool, as if he had not lately made a run of several miles.

More than that, he had changed his clothes, as the suit he had on was not the same he had worn during the run!

Paul staggered in, and dropped limply on the couch, staring at Frank, as if he saw a ghost.

"Look—here—Merriwell," he panted, "what—are—you—made—of? Are—you—run—by—steam?"

"Oh, no!" laughed Frank. "I beg your pardon for leaving you in such a manner, but you know you had become so very unsociable that I had to do——"

Pierson made a weak gesture, and interrupted with:

"Don't apologize for that—it was the agreement that one should run away from the other, if possible, on the way back. You had a right to do it."

"What is all this about?" asked Rattleton, in a mystified manner. "What have you fellows been doing?"

"Don't you know?" cried Paul, amazed.

"No, I don't know," declared Rattleton. "Frank walked into the room a short time ago, went into his bedroom, took a sponge bath and changed his clothes, and we have been telling stories since then."

"Took a sponge bath?" shouted Pierson, popping bolt upright. "Jerusalem. You talk as if he had been here half an hour! I will admit that this beats anything I ever experienced!"

Then he flopped down on the couch again, as if utterly overcome.