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. “I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I turned my watch back for any reason,” said Diamond, gulping down his growing anger. “You ought to know that I wouldn’t insinuate such a thing against any member of the Lilywhites?” Hammond sarcastically purred, but in softer tones. Frank Merriwell was stringing his bow and glancing off toward the target. It was a thirty-pound lancewood bow, with horn notches at the tips, a handsome bow, and a good one, as he had reason to know. The target was set at a supposed distance of sixty yards from the archers. It was a flat, circular pad of twisted straw, four feet in diameter, and it was faced with cloth, on which was painted a central yellow disk, called the gold. Around this disk was drawn a band of red, and next to it a band of blue, then one of black, and finally one of white. “I suppose you understand how the scores are to be counted?” inquired Hammond, glad to change the subject, for he did not like the look that had come into Diamond’s dark face. “A hit in the gold counts nine, in the red seven, in the blue five, in the black three, and in the white one.” “And if you miss the gol darned thing altogether?” drawled the boy from Vermont. “You’ll likely lose an arrow somewhere down there in the woods,” Hammond laughed. Craig Carter, a sinewy lad of about seventeen, Hammond’s most intimate friend and admirer, stepped forward with drawn bow and placed himself in readiness to shoot, as his name came first on the list. “We’re not ready yet,” objected Merriwell, noting the action and again glancing toward the target. “The distance hasn’t been measured.” “We measured it before you came,” said Hammond, with an uneasy look. “It is only fair that it should be measured in our presence,” continued Frank. “Errors can happen, you know, and as the rules call for sixty yards and we have been practicing for that we don’t want to run any risks by shooting at any other distance.”