“Who?” said Dick, staring at him in amazement.
“Why, Bosworth, of course,” went on Varrell, coolly; “if what Phil says of him is true, he’s even a bigger rascal than I always thought him.”
Dick was nonplussed. His conversation with Phil had certainly been carried on in a tone too low to be audible to Varrell in the bedroom.
“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
“Why, that he has been getting some of those little fellows into his room to play poker and fleecing them, especially that boy with a short name with a ‘t’ or a ‘d’ in it.”
“Yes, Eddy,” replied Dick. “He’s in Phil’s class.” And then, looking curiously at his friend, he added, “Your hearing is growing surprisingly good, I must say.”
“I’m sorry if I overheard what you meant I should not know,” said Varrell, flushing. “If that is the case, I shall certainly try to forget it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind your knowing it,” said Dick, “I only wish you could tell what we ought to do about it.”
The clanging bell again interposed its peremptory summons.
“Twelve o’clock!” cried Varrell, as he made a dash for his hat, “and only thirty lines. I’ll bet I’ll be called on for the ten I didn’t learn.”