The figure was that of a farmer, but this signified nothing in Carsonville, where every one owned farms or orchards, or else worked in them. The man was tall, round-shouldered, and his face was decorated with a yellowish wisp of beard. He seemed to be a powerful fellow, Chip thought. As he approached the hotel, Merry caught sight of the man’s face. It was not exactly a pleasant one, for the eyes were very close set, and there was a general look of shrewd cunning about the man which was not reassuring. Frank would not have noticed him, had the man not been inspecting him rather closely as he drew near. It occurred to Merry that the fellow might be looking for him. “Good morning!” he exclaimed. “This is certainly great spring weather, eh?” “Purty good,” and the man looked him over curiously. “Say, mister, mebbe you kin tell me if there’s a feller at the hotel by the name o’ Merriwell? Frank Merriwell, I guess the front part of it is.” Merry wondered. Without any undue self-glorification, he thought it odd that the man did not know him, for every soul in town had witnessed the game of the previous day. He himself had come in for a good deal of attention. “I believe he’s stopping here,” he said. “In fact, you happen to be talking to him at this moment. Why?” “Well, now!” The man stared up. “Are you him?” “I’m it,” laughed Frank. “Anything I can do for you?” “Why, I was down to the railroad dee-po jest now, when a tellygram come in fer a feller o’ that name. The agent, he couldn’t come up very well, so I said I’d fetch it along and see if you was here.” While he spoke, the man began fishing in the pocket of his overalls, and at last pulled out a yellow envelope. Merry took it with a nod. He knew that there was no regular telegraph office in the little town, messages being handled from the railroad station, so he thought little of the matter. “Well, I’m much obliged to you for your trouble,” he said, taking out a quarter as the man handed him the message. “If you’ll take----” “No, thanks, mister,” and the man turned away without taking the money. “I couldn’t take nothin’, thanks. So long.” “So long,” said Frank. He tore open the message, as the man slouched away down the street. It was a typewritten message, and had evidently been received at Carsonville some ten minutes previously. “By gracious!” he said. “What the deuce has struck Uncle Dick, anyhow? And where or what is Orton?” This was the message that caused him so much wonder: FRANK MERRIWELL, JUNIOR, Carsonville: Have your father meet me not later than nine, Sunday morning, Orton. Very important. Keep destination secret. UNCLE DICK. Merry stared down at it, frowning. There must be a place named Orton, though he knew of none in the vicinity. But what was Dick Merriwell doing there? He turned at a step, to find the clerk sweeping out the refuse through the doorway of the hotel. Chip knew that he would be able to get information at once, and spoke.