"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. CHAPTER XXXI. AN INCENTIVE TO WIN. Paul Pierson had made a discovery that night, and, before he left, he told Frank Merriwell to put himself into condition to enter one of the races at the Madison Square Garden tournament in New York. "You seem to be in pretty good condition now," he said, with a grim smile; "but you know whether you can improve your condition or not. If you can, do it, for you are liable to be pitted against men who will give you a decidedly hotter time than you have ever struck." "All right," said Frank, quietly. "You'll find that I shall be in shape, and I'll do my best to be a credit to Old Yale."