This was the message that caused him so much wonder:
Frank Merriwell, Junior, Carsonville: Have your father meet me not later than nine, Sunday morning, Orton. Very important. Keep destination secret.
Uncle Dick.
Merry stared down at it, frowning. There must be a place named Orton, though he knew of none in the vicinity. But what was Dick Merriwell doing there?
He turned at a step, to find the clerk sweeping out the refuse through the doorway of the hotel. Chip knew that he would be able to get information at once, and spoke.
“Where is Orton? Is that any place near here?”
“Orton? Sure, Mr. Merriwell!” The clerk jerked his thumb over across the valley. “It ain’t what you might call a metropolis, nohow, but it’s got a smithy and a couple o’ stores and a schoolhouse. Thinkin’ o’ goin’ over there?”
Frank started. Going over there! Why, of course!
“How far is it from here?” he queried.
“About fifteen mile by road, I take it. ’Bout ten, as the crow flies.”