“When?”
“First chance you get.”
“All right,” said Bunol. “I do that. I show you. Then you know I hate him same as I hate Deek Merriwell.”
Crauthers was filled with the greatest satisfaction. Was it possible Bunol would keep his word? Then it would be fine to turn the fellow against Chet Arlington. One thing that had brought Mark Crauthers to the Den that evening was a desire to induce the others to stand with him in a plan to humiliate and punish Arlington. And now they had stumbled on a way of accomplishing that purpose without taking the work in their own hands.
So Bunol was again admitted to the circle, and they sat about the fire, warming their fingers and smoking. The blaze flared fitfully, lighting their faces and filling the interior of the Den with a pleasant glow.
Like brigands were they there in that snug retreat of the tangled woods. The wind did not reach them, for the thicket broke it. At times it rose and roared above their heads. The trees creaked at intervals, but in all that strip of woods no living creature save themselves seemed present.
Winter was at hand. The breath of King Cold was sweeping across the world. Yet they were warm and comfortable in their sheltered retreat. With blankets and a fire they could have passed the night there in an agreeable manner.
“I’m getting sick of school,” said Crauthers, tenderly caressing his swollen eye. “I’d like to get away. I’d like to go West, or somewhere, and live in the woods, and just hunt and fish and do as I pleased. Wouldn’t it be great, fellows?”
“It might be all right for a while,” said Stark; “but you’d get sick of it pretty soon.”
Crauthers shook his head.