“You fellows will have to be charitable to-night,” he remarked, as he took off the cover and laid it aside. “My work is of such a nature that it is impossible for me to have servants of any kind about, and, as a result, I have grown accustomed to looking after things myself.”
Dick looked at him in surprise.
“Do you mean to say that you never have any one here to cook or clean up?” he asked.
Scott Randolph hesitated.
“Well, not exactly that,” he said slowly. “I have a fri—a man who comes in and helps me occasionally; but as a rule I look after myself. It isn’t hard when you’ve grown used to it, and the chafing dish is a great help. Of course, when I’m alone, as I generally am, I don’t do things elaborately.”
His apology for the meal was quite unnecessary, for it was delicious and cooked to perfection. The two fellows enjoyed every mouthful of it, marveling how a man could live so well in a place that was so out of the way as to be almost in a wilderness.
Scott Randolph was an ideal host. Bright, witty, and entertaining in his conversation, he had, when he chose to exert himself, an extraordinary charm of manner. By the time they arose from the table and returned to the library, both Merriwell and Buckhart had made up their minds that he was a very good sort indeed, and were not surprised that he had been a friend of Frank.
They settled down comfortably on a couch, and for nearly an hour Dick regaled his host with everything he could think of that would interest him regarding Frank’s doings, even giving him the latter’s letter to read.
“I shall write to him to-morrow,” Randolph said contritely, when the Yale man had finished. “I’m afraid, living in seclusion as I do, with scarcely any relaxation from an absorbing and interesting work, I’ve grown selfish. I don’t want Frank to think I’ve forgotten him, for I haven’t. One makes few enough real friends in this world, and a fellow is lucky to have one like your brother.”
Dick hesitated for an instant.