“Old town looks natural, doesn’t it?”
“So it does, Roger. See any of the fellows?”
“Not yet, Dave. But we are sure to meet somebody, even if it is a school-day,” went on the senator’s son.
“Uncle Dunston, let me take the auto around to the hotel,” said our hero. “I know the streets better than you do. We have to make several turns.”
“All right, Dave,” was the ready answer, and Dunston Porter arose and allowed his nephew to crowd into the driver’s seat.
The run to the town in the vicinity of which Oak Hall was located had been made without further incident. On the way the party had talked over Mrs. Breen’s affairs, and Dunston Porter had promised to take the matter up, through his lawyer.
“I think it best that our names don’t appear 42 in the case,” said he. “Otherwise, Mr. Haskers might not treat you so well during the term.”
“He never treats us well, anyway,” grumbled Phil. “But you are right, don’t mention our names.”
On this late winter day the town looked rather dreary, but the young folks were in high spirits, and Dave, with a grand flourish, ran the car up to one of the best hotels the place afforded. As before, word had been sent ahead that they were coming, and the host of the resort came out to meet them.
“We’ll have dinner ready inside of quarter of an hour,” he said. “Come in and make yourselves at home.”