“Jobloth,” supplied the stranger promptly. “Perthy Jobloth, of Commonwealth Avenue, Bothton. No, I jutht came up for the day, but I thuppoth there will be no trouble getting accomodations in the village hotel.” Merriwell glanced at Cobmore rather dubiously. “Thar ain’t no hotel,” returned the farmer with twinkling eyes. Joblots looked aghast. “No hotel!” he gasped. “Grathiouth thaketh! Whatever thall I do? It’th much too late to get back to the city.” “Yep,” Cobmore said with a distinct relish. “Ain’t no train now till mornin’. You should hev took the five-ten.” He seemed to be extracting considerable amusement out of Mr. Percy Joblots’ predicament. The latter was most distressed. “That’th what I meant to do,” he explained sadly; “but I got tho interethted in my thooting, and the woodth looked tho lovely, that I mithed it. My goodneth grathouth! I don’t know what to do. Whoever would think there wath no hotel!” He looked so utterly woebegone and crestfallen that Dick felt sorry for him. Of course they could take him in for the night, but he wasn’t particularly anxious to have a stranger around who was apt to be a damper on their fun. Still the man could not stay out in the woods all night, and it seemed foolish to insist on his going back to Lysander Cobmore’s when their own destination was so close at hand. He glanced questioningly at his three friends. They had quite as much say as he had. Buckhart shrugged his shoulders indifferently; apparently it made no difference to him what became of Mr. Joblots. Fitz nodded emphatically, a broad grin on his expressive face. Evidently he saw possibilities for mirth in the presence of the stranger. Baxter seemed not to care one way or another. At least it would only be for one night, Dick reflected, turning to the dapper little fellow. “You’d better come along with us, Mr. Joblots,” he said. “We are on our way to a farmhouse which we are going to make our headquarters for a few days. I imagine there will be room enough for you to stay to-night.” He glanced inquiringly at the farmer, who nodded. “Room an’ to spare,” he said tersely, “an’ you gents had better be gittin’ on if you want to git thar before dark.” Percy Joblots was overjoyed. “That-th extremely kind of you,” he said gratefully. “It relievth me from a motht unpleathant prediciment. I really don’t know what I thould have done but for you, bah Jove!” “Well, that’s settled,” Dick said shortly, “and we’d better get on. My name is Dick Merriwell, and these are my friends, Brad Buckhart, Eric Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, all of Yale.” “Delighted, I’m thure,” murmured Joblots, as the party resumed their way along the path. “Of Yale! Dear me! How many dear friendth I have had from New Haven.” “You didn’t graduate from there yourself, by any chance, did you?” inquired Fitz. “No, I—er—wath educated at home by—er—tutorth,” returned the little fellow hastily. “Perhaps you know some one who is there now,” persisted Fitzgerald.