Percy Joblots was overjoyed.
“That-th extremely kind of you,” he said gratefully. “It relievth me from a motht unpleathant prediciment. I really don’t know what I thould have done but for you, bah Jove!”
“Well, that’s settled,” Dick said shortly, “and we’d better get on. My name is Dick Merriwell, and these are my friends, Brad Buckhart, Eric Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, all of Yale.”
“Delighted, I’m thure,” murmured Joblots, as the party resumed their way along the path. “Of Yale! Dear me! How many dear friendth I have had from New Haven.”
“You didn’t graduate from there yourself, by any chance, did you?” inquired Fitz.
“No, I—er—wath educated at home by—er—tutorth,” returned the little fellow hastily.
“Perhaps you know some one who is there now,” persisted Fitzgerald.
“Well, no, I think not. Motht of my friendth have graduated. Let me thee, though. Do you know a chap named McCormick?”
“Yes, of course,” returned Fitz quickly. “Archie McCormick. Dandy fellow, he is, too. Know him?”
Joblots hesitated.