“Father!”
And Frank Merriwell, senior, smiled quietly as he took Chip’s hand.
CHAPTER XIII.
BEATEN AT HIS OWN GAME.
“Now, boys, I owe you a word of explanation.”
Frank Merriwell, senior, faced the victorious Clippings, who were lined up around Mrs. McQuade’s extended dinner table.
“I want you to know why I did this. It wasn’t to gamble, as most of you know that I don’t countenance that so-called sport for a minute. It wasn’t to fight Colonel Carson with his own weapons. That’s another thing I don’t believe in.
“But I do enjoy beating a man at his own game, when I can do it cleanly and make him learn a lesson. Now, in plain words, I knew that Colonel Carson was little short of being a crook. When he gambled, he wanted to gamble on a sure thing.”
“That’s right,” went up a murmur.
“But I did not make this bet with him in the prospect of winning money. I made it in order to get that mortgage from him—that mortgage which my good friend, Mrs. McQuade, had the pleasure of burning just before dinner. He had obtained it legally. Then he had been paid for it. By some mischance, Mr. McQuade had not obtained it, and had no receipt to show.