Читать книгу Dick Merriwell's Fighting Chance; Or, The Split in the Varsity онлайн

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“What’s your hurry, Bob? Where you rushing to?”

Hollister looked up quickly, and when he saw who the speaker was, his face brightened.

“Hello, Jarv,” he said quickly. “I’m due at the lab at ten o’clock.”

“As it lacks just sixteen minutes of that hour, and you can’t possibly use up more than five getting over there, I fail to see the reason for your hurry,” commented Jarvis Blake, as he continued to advance slowly and leisurely. “I’m going there myself, but I don’t propose to run my legs off.”

He was a big, blond fellow, with thick, straight, almost tow-colored hair, eyelashes and eyebrows so light as to be nearly invisible. He wore a neatly clipped yellow mustache, which was the exact color of corn silk.

His eyes were dark blue and set wide apart, his features clean-cut and handsome, except that his mouth was large and loosely set. He was one of the best subs on the varsity and played an exceedingly good, brainy game.

Men about college said he had a pronounced case of swelled head. Certainly he was not likely to undervalue himself, but for all that he was well liked among a certain class, and Hollister had always found him genial and entertaining, a good fellow in every respect.