It was, in truth, the young Spaniard who had once attended school at Fardale—the fellow who had caused the Budthornes so much trouble in England and Scotland.
Since leaving Italy Dunbar and his sister had taken precautions to throw Bunol off their trail, in case the venomous rascal persisted in seeking to follow them. Their success had led them to believe they would see no more of him.
But in some manner Bunol had traced them to Damascus and overtaken them there.
Dick’s eyes glittered as they fell on the fellow, while every muscle in Buckhart’s body seemed to become taut, and the Texan crouched a little, like a person ready to make a leap.
Bunol closed the door and placed his back against it, facing the two boys he hated. He stood there, surveying them insolently, deep satisfaction in his face and bearing. His manner seemed to say: “I am master of the situation at last, and now I propose to crush you.”
“Woof!” finally burst from Buckhart, like the snort of a startled wild beast. “It sure is that same onery coyote, partner!”
“It would be well for you if you restrained your tongues and called no hard names,” said Bunol.
“The varmint is plenty bold, Dick,” said Brad.
Merriwell recovered command of himself, and he seemed quite calm and undisturbed, although inwardly a tempest was raging.
“So you have followed us here, Mig Bunol?” he said.