“Well, well,” he commented. “Tho thatth what it ith. A lot of little bulletth. Quite a cute idea, ithn’t it? Giveth a chap more chance to hit thomething, I thuppothe.”
Fitzgerald threatening another outburst, Dick abruptly changed the subject.
“Are you stopping near here, Mr. ——”
He paused significantly.
“Jobloth,” supplied the stranger promptly. “Perthy Jobloth, of Commonwealth Avenue, Bothton. No, I jutht came up for the day, but I thuppoth there will be no trouble getting accomodations in the village hotel.”
Merriwell glanced at Cobmore rather dubiously.
“Thar ain’t no hotel,” returned the farmer with twinkling eyes.
Joblots looked aghast.
“No hotel!” he gasped. “Grathiouth thaketh! Whatever thall I do? It’th much too late to get back to the city.”
“Yep,” Cobmore said with a distinct relish. “Ain’t no train now till mornin’. You should hev took the five-ten.”