“Yes, sir,” Frank answered hopefully.
“When do you expect to leave?”
Frank’s hopes continued to grow. Why all this talk if the colonel was not inclined to be in a receptive mood regarding his cast-off nephew?
“Why, we’re going to leave just as soon as Professor Borrodaile receives his check from Mr. Bradlaugh’s syndicate for the mine in the Picketpost Mountains. Just when that will be I don’t know.”
“I can tell you, my boy,” struck in Mr. Bradlaugh. “I had a telegram from New York yesterday, saying the check would be here in to-day’s mail. The stage will bring it this forenoon.”
“That means, then,” said Merriwell, “that we’ll probably get away to-morrow.”
“Too soon.” scowled the colonel. “You’re not giving me time enough.”
“About how much time do you want, Hawtrey,” queried Mr. Bradlaugh, “in order to show a merciful and forgiving spirit toward your own flesh and blood?”
Colonel Hawtrey faced Mr. Bradlaugh slowly and looked him full in the eyes.
“About fifty years,” he answered harshly, “and then some.” His tone changed a little as he turned back to Merriwell. “I’m sorry, my lad,” he went on. “I suppose you’ll think I’m a hard-hearted old wretch, but this matter that seems so simple to you is really quite complicated. As I’ve said before, Jode has made his own bed, and now he must lie in it.”