"Don’t talk to me about sand! What’s the matter with you, Mr. Lynch? Why don’t you do your own work? You know I am under suspicion. If Glennon hadn’t denied ever seeing me before, I’d been kicked out of Fardale."
"Likely," nodded Lynch coolly.
"Then what do you wish—to get me kicked out?"
"I want to reach this Dick Merriwell somehow—and his brother. I hate Frank Merriwell as much as I do Dick. Why shouldn’t I? I believe he had me dropped off the team that Dick might take my place."
"You don’t hate either of them more than I do, but I’m just where I can’t do anything without being in danger of losing my head any moment. I’m watched—I’m spied on, and the worst spy of the lot is that infernal old wretch of an Indian, Joe Crowfoot."
It was Jabez’s turn to shiver a little then, for he remembered a thrilling experience with Old Joe in the woods when the Indian had threatened to burn off his right hand because he had flung red pepper into Dick Merriwell’s eyes.
"That old devil!" he snapped. "He ought to be shot! One thing is certain—he can’t get near enough to us here without being seen to hear our talk."
"That’s right," nodded Uric, poking at the mass of dead leaves in the hollow, having picked up a dead branch from the ground. "But he’s the very Old Nick for concealing himself. One can never be dead sure the old wretch is not watching or listening. I wish somebody would shoot him!"
"Still," said Lynch, "if it hadn’t been for him I’d not be in Fardale now."
"Eh?" said Uric. "What do you——"