“The question is—who are you?” called back Tom. “That’s our house.”
“Ah, indeed! Then, in that case, you may come in.”
Don Stratton’s visions of cattle rustlers and desperados immediately vanished. Surely the tones of that voice, a hearty, musical one, had nothing in them suggestive of the characters he had so vividly pictured in his mind.
Joining in the ripple of laughter which the man’s response had caused, he, like the others, tied his pony to a hitching-post, and right behind them bounded up the steps.
At the entrance the mysterious visitors looming up in the doorway faced the crowd.
“Thunderation! What a big bunch it is!” cried one, evidently the younger. “I say—— Great Cæsar, Professor! Am I right—nothing but a lot of boys?”
“Boys!” echoed Tom, stiffly. “We’re——”
“All explanations inside, if you please,” interrupted the man who had spoken to them from the window. “Parry,” he slapped his companion good-naturedly on the shoulder, “in spite of all my traveling, I’m not over the faculty of being surprised. Well, well—I am again!”
“And so were we,” remarked Tom, rather grimly.
They followed the men into the dining-room, where the rays from a couple of lanterns resting on the table revealed their faces clearly.