"Do your own work, Mr. Lynch," he muttered, "and I’ll do mine. There was a time when I’d been glad to stand in with you on almost anything; but I’ve found you don’t care a continental about me, and you wouldn’t turn your hand over to help me if I got in a scrape. I don’t love Merriwell, but, at the same time, I don’t trust you."
After a few minutes, Uric followed his late companion, and the little hollow was deserted. The wind came down and rustled the heap of dead leaves that had gathered thickly at the bottom of the depression. And then, when the sound of retreating footsteps had died out and all was still, the leaves seemed to move of their own accord.
There was a gentle upheaval, and from the midst of the leaves rose a human head, in which were set a pair of small, keen, coal-black eyes.
"Ugh!" grunted a guttural voice.
And from this spot of concealment, where he had listened within three feet of the rascally pair, rose Old Joe Crowfoot.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE SPY.
It happened that Jabez Lynch found some excuse that enabled him to be absent from school a day, and he left Fardale by rail, saying nothing of his destination to any one. The following day, by an early train, there came into Fardale a dark-faced youth, who went directly to a hotel, obtained a room, and retired to it.
An examination of the register would have shown that he had written there "H. T. Lincoln, Philadelphia, Pa." Mr. Lincoln did not show himself much about the hotel, for Fardale was a small place, and strangers always attracted more or less attention there.
That forenoon he received a letter that had been dropped in the post-office at Fardale. When he tore open the letter, he found written within: "This afternoon, half-past four. Come."
Shortly before four o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Lincoln buttoned his overcoat to his chin, pulled on a pair of gloves, set his soft hat well down on his head, and started out briskly in the direction of Fardale Academy.