“That will do very nicely,” returned Pennyfeather quickly. “I hope, however, you will allow me a scant five minutes in which to bring to a realizing sense of the evil of their ways, the two very profane young men whom I first talked with.” He moved swiftly through the dining room as he spoke, with Merriwell at his heels, but when they reached the sitting room, it was found to be quite deserted. Evidently the fellows, scenting a probable continuance of the stranger’s moral lecture, had decamped. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” breathed Pennyfeather. “What is so tormenting as a guilty conscience, my dear sir? I should have liked one more chance to plead with them, but life is full of disappointments, which are always discipline for the soul, sir—discipline for the soul. This chair will do nicely.” His sudden change of subject was due to a glimpse of Dick’s impatient face as he stood significantly by the door, gun in one hand, ready to be gone. With a swift judgment which had little of the spiritual in it, the preacher picked instantly the most comfortable chair in the room, and proceeded to roll it out to the veranda with considerable expedition. Dick closed and locked the door behind him, thrusting the key into his pocket. “Rest yourself as long as you please,” he said briefly, leaping to the ground. “Nobody will disturb you.” Without waiting for a reply, he started across the open at a brisk pace to join the fellows who were waiting for him at the edge of the woods. “Blessed is he who sits on a tack, for he shall rise again,” intoned Fitzgerald, rolling his eyes heavenward and drawing down the corners of his mouth. “Did he start in to give you a jawing, too, pard?” Buckhart inquired, with a grin. “Hope you didn’t say ‘dash it’ in his highness’ presence.” “What’s he doing in that chair on the porch?” Teddy Baxter asked curiously. “Resting,” Dick explained. “He’s subject to spells of faintness which need—er—stimulant. Painful affliction from childhood, you know. Nothing else helps. When he found there was nothing doing in that line, he asked for a chair upon which to rest his weary limbs and recover from said spell, so I let him take it. He can’t get away with that. It weighs about a ton.” “Dotty, isn’t he?” Fitz asked, as he leaped down from the fence rail. “I guess so,” Dick returned. “Either that, or just plain faker. Come on, let’s get busy. We’ve wasted enough time.” Leaping the fence, they at once plunged into the woods and started in a northerly direction toward the wilder, rocky country beyond, where Farmer Cobmore had told them the partridges were remarkably thick this fall. Already they were planning to get up with the dawn next morning and try for wild ducks at their feeding ground at the upper end of Cranberry Lake.