Dick nodded and walked into the tent, the flap of which he was compelled to lift.
A single person occupied the tent. He was sitting on a mat at the rear, smoking a cigarette. His garments were Turkish and there was a fez on his head. About him there was something familiar.
A muttered exclamation of surprise rose to Dick’s lips. Dropping the tent flap behind him, he stepped quickly forward. As he did so the cigarette smoker lifted his head, and young Merriwell was face to face with Miguel Bunol!
CHAPTER XXIII—THE FOUNT OF FURY
“You?” exclaimed Dick, in astonishment.
Bunol inhaled a deep whiff of smoke, permitted it to escape in a thin, blue cloud, and smiled triumphantly.
“As you see,” he said insolently.
“Here?” gasped the American boy.
“Here,” nodded the Spaniard.
“I don’t understand it!”