"Jim Joggers," replied the tramp.
Dr. Hewitt eyed the fellow keenly for a few seconds, before he replied, with a slight smile:
"All right; we'll let it go at Joggers until you've put yourself far enough forward so that you'll be willing to use your own name."
Honk! honk! The car was under way.
When Dick and his three friends turned back to the tent they found all three of the remaining tramps in there, smoking vile pipes and playing with a greasy, battered pack of cards. "The weather's fine again," announced Dick, "and you'll find us the most hospitable fellows you ever met. My friends, we take pleasure in offering you the whole outside world in which to play!"
"Talk United States!" growled one of the tramps, without looking up from the game.
"Tom," laughed Prescott, turning to Reade, "strange dialects are your specialty. Kindly translate, into 'United States,' what I have just said to these men."
"I will," agreed Tom. "Attention, hoboes! Look right at me!
That's right. Now—-git!"
"You might let us stay on a bit longer," grumbled one of the tramps.
"We ain't bothering you folks any."
"Only eating us out of house and home," snapped Dave.