“It was through me that Frank came here to play baseball long ago,” he said. “I induced him to come. Those were hot times, and it appears that they are just as warm nowadays. I remember old Artemus Hammerswell and his son Herbert. Artemus had money, and Herbert thought himself a thoroughbred. There’s bad blood in these Hammerswells. They got the worst of it in the old days, and I fancy Benton Hammerswell will get the worst of it now.”
“There he is!” exclaimed Brad Buckhart, pointing toward the veranda of the hotel. “He’s there on the steps talking to another man. Yes, by the great horn spoon, the man he’s talking with is Tom Fernald!”
The Texan was somewhat excited. Dick clutched Brad’s shoulder to prevent him from getting off the car at once.
“What do you think you’re going to do, Buckhart?” he demanded.
“I’d just like to prance up there and put my brand on both those varmints!” declared the Westerner.
“But they’re men, and you’re only a boy,” said Hodge. “They would be two to one against you.”
“I certain don’t opine that would hold me up any. I reckon Fernald got something from me last night.”
The excited Texan was restrained until the car stopped at the platform built for the passengers who wished to get off at the hotel.
On that platform were a number of summer visitors, both ladies and gentlemen. Three men stepped forward as the boys left the car. They were Henry Duncan, William Drake, and Eustace Smiley. Duncan clasped Dick’s hand.
“Good morning, my boy!” he exclaimed heartily. “I’m glad you accepted our invitation. Hammerswell found out about it, and he’s hot under the collar. I don’t know what he’s been doing, but he made a great hustle when he learned you were coming.”