“Well, you must have had sport!” Kenneth exclaimed. “I should have enjoyed that. Say, father, we must get up something in the way of sport while they are at Springbrook. Can’t we have a hunt?” “It’s too early in the season, my son,” smiled Mr. St. Ives. “I don’t know about that,” declared Kenneth. “We’re liable to have a frost any morning now. It is chilly at times for this season. Perhaps to-morrow morning——” “The Meadowfair Club visits us to-morrow, you know.” “I had forgotten that. So much the better! If Mr. Merriwell and his friends will stay, we’ll find some sort of sport to amuse them.” The top of the hill was reached, and then Springbrook Farm was pointed out, lying on a hillside two miles distant. It was a beautiful place. The great stables seemed modern, but the house was an immense colonial mansion, surrounded by tall trees. The farming land was a broad prospect of cleared land, upon which were great meadows and small groves. Cattle and horses were to be seen, and it had the appearance of a stock or dairy farm. “There is the place, Mr. Merriwell!” cried Kenneth St. Ives; “and a more beautiful spot is not to be found in all Pennsylvania.” Frank did not wonder at Kenneth’s enthusiasm. Not far from the old mansion was a small lake, with a boathouse on the shore, and some boats lying near. Frank felt sure that the rest of the party could not be far behind, so Barney would not be compelled to wait long; but it was necessary that some one should meet them, as Springbrook Farm lay off from the main highway, being reached by means of a private drive, and the bicyclists, unless notified, would not know Frank contemplated stopping there. Barney was willing to wait for them, and so the others rode onward, Frank wheeling along and chatting with them all. Stephen Fenton was seen riding up the last incline toward the distant mansion, still forcing his horse. When the place was reached a hostler was at work over Firefoot in one of the stables, and the animal showed the abuse it had received. Mr. St. Ives dismounted and looked Firefoot over, observing: “That’s fine shape for a horse to be in after a canter along the road. The creature could not look worse if it had been following the hounds across country. I think Stephen will have to take another horse the next time he goes out.” “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” said the hostler, with gruff respect; “but he says as how he were not to blame. You knows, sir, as how this beast is onruly, sir, an’ Mr. Fenton says it were skeered by some saucy chaps on bisuckles that paid no attention to its snortin’ an’ rearin’. You know yerself, sir, as how most of the bisuckle riders are sassy villains, sir.” This was said regardless of the fact that Frank had trundled his wheel into the stable, and the hostler could not help knowing a cyclist was hearing every word he spoke. Preston St. Ives did not deign to make any reply to the hostler’s words, but said: