Hoboson stood with his hands on his hips, chuckling softly to himself.
“What does this mean?” asked Dick, in surprise.
“That’s whatever I’d like to know,” said Buckhart.
“It means,” said the tramp, “that some tough characters planned to eat you up, but made a slight mistake by taking me into the game.”
“Who are you?” asked Merriwell.
“I am a knight of the road. I am a preambulator of the highways. In other words, boys, I am what is disdainfully called a hobo.”
“I don’t understand it at all,” again declared Dick.
“Then I will clear up the haze,” said the tramp. “In this town there’s a gent by the name of Fernald who has it in for Brad Buckhart.”
“And I’m Brad Buckhart,” muttered the Texan. “Was Fernald behind this business?”
“Sure as shooting. He put up the job and engaged the gang to do you dirt. By chance, while pretending to take a nap in the Corndike barroom, I heard him talking it over. It interested me, and I decided that I would have a finger in the fun. That explains why I am here.”