"How are you, Mr. Merriwell," said Arthur, with a touch of cordiality, as he shook hands with the visitor. "Father has been telling me about you. Says you're a corking fisherman. That was what put you right with him. He's the biggest crank on fishing that I ever saw."
Arthur Hatch was a chap it was not easy to fathom at first sight. He resembled his father slightly, but he was larger and better built, although somewhat too flat across the chest. He seemed to affect a drawl, and the grasp of his hand was not exactly hearty.
They entered the house.
"I'll take care of Merriwell now, father, if you don't mind," said the son. "Perhaps I can entertain him until dinner time."
"You'll find I don't need entertaining," laughed Frank. "I particularly dislike to have any one put himself out to entertain me. I feel easier when no effort is made."
"Come up to my room," invited the boy.
They ascended to Art's room, which was on the second floor, and proved to be almost luxurious.
"Now, make yourself at home, Merriwell," drawled the boy, with an air of familiarity. "There is the bathroom."
Frank removed his coat, pulled back his cuffs, and washed his face and hands, which gave him a feeling of freshness.
In the meantime, on returning to Art's room, he found the boy had produced a flask and glasses.