It was true that, excepting the resplendant Joblots, the Yale men were all attired in flannel shirts and rather worn, rough-looking clothes; but any one in his senses would scarcely mistake them for tramps.
Dick arose slowly to his feet, his face calm but his eyes narrowing slightly.
“I think that will be about enough,” he said quietly, but with an ominous undercurrent in his voice. “We’re not tramps, and you know it. Neither have we broken into this house. You ought to know that, too. Before you loosen up any more on that tongue of yours, kindly let us know who you might be and what business you have butting in here.”
The stranger’s black eyes fairly flashed.
“Butting in!” he exploded. “I’ll have you know that I am Andrew Jellison, son of the man who owned this place!”
Merriwell eyed him with a new interest.
“Ah, indeed,” he remarked pleasantly. “Wouldn’t son-in-law be a little more accurate?”
Jellison gave a start and darted a quick look at Dick.
“What difference does that make?” he snapped.
“Quite a little, I should think,” Merriwell returned calmly. “But you haven’t told us what right you have here.”