“Good evening, Miss Harrington,” said Merry, tipping his hat politely. “Have you forgotten me?”
“I think I have,” said the angular maiden, rather suspiciously. “Be you a softmore?”
“No, indeed,” answered Merry. “I am a junior.”
“’Case if you were a softmore,” said Miss Harrington, “I should give you warning to keep away from here. They have near pestered the patience out of mother.”
“I boarded here once, Miss Harrington. I am Frank Merriwell.”
“Land! Do tell! Come right in! Mother will be delighted to see you.”
Frank entered, and soon he was listening to the woes of Mrs. Harrington, as related by herself.
“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” said the widow; “it’s not many young men there do be nowadays like you. When you were here peace and quietness reigned beneath this roof, but now it is quite a different story.”
Frank concealed a smile behind his hand, as he thought of the hot times in that house when he boarded there. Mrs. Harrington had repeatedly told him that her boarders at that time were the worst she had ever known. With the good lady, her last lot of boarders always were the worst.
“I understand,” said Frank, “that you have one fine young gentleman stopping here.”