"Maybe it is some one who would like to lease the farm," returned Caspar Potts. "Let us go out and see," and he extinguished the candle.
Brushing the dust and cobwebs from his coat, Dave followed the old professor to the porch of the cottage. The two visitors were so busy talking that, for the instant, they did not notice the others.
"Hello there!" exclaimed Dave, in some surprise, as his eyes rested on the face of one of the visitors. "How in the world did you get here?"
"I—er—I—er—It's Mr. Porter!" stammered the fellow addressed, and he leaped quickly to his feet.
It was Ward Porton, the young man Dave and his chums had rescued from the sea when the steam yacht was on fire.
"Dave Porter! Here!" came from the other fellow who had been seated on the stoop, and now he too leaped up. "—I guess we had better leave," he stammered.
"Link Merwell!" ejaculated our hero. It must be confessed that now he was all but dumfounded. He had thought that Link Merwell must be in Boston, and to find him here on the outskirts of Crumville, and in company with Ward Porton, the fellow he had rescued, was almost beyond belief.