“Hold on a moment, son. I know those lads!”
“Know them?” gasped Frank.
“Yes. Hello there!” he cried. “Aren’t you Jerry Hopkins, Ned Slade and Bob Baker?”
For a moment neither of the three chums answered. Then looks of recognition came over their faces.
“Mr. Hobson!” Jerry fairly shouted. “Mr. Hobson!”
“I thought so,” went on Frank’s stepfather, laughing. “I’ve got a pretty good memory for faces. I never expected to see you at Boxwood Hall. Frank, you know these lads, of course?”
“I—er—I—that is—Oh, yes, of course.”
Frank was ill at ease. But his stepfather, Mr. Hobson, went on, not seeming to notice.
“Frank,” he said, “I want you to shake hands with three of the pluckiest lads in the world. When I had an accident some time ago—when my auto left the road, rolled down a bank, pinned me under it and then got on fire—these lads raised it off me and got me out in time to save my life. Shake hands with Ned, Bob and Jerry, Frank, and thank ’em for your dad’s life.”