Moodily Jode Lenning found a place where he could be fairly comfortable, and sat down. Every muscle in his body was aching. A few weeks before he would not have minded a jaunt like the one he and Shoup was taking, but now it told on him fearfully.
He knew the reason. His wits were keen enough to assure him that reckless living for only a few days had sapped the strength and endurance which he had been garnering for months.
He had been foolish, worse than foolish. But that couldn’t be helped, and there was no use crying over spilt milk.
The one object he had in life, just then, was squaring accounts with Frank Merriwell. Merriwell was always in the pink of condition—he made it a point to keep himself so.
“I’m all shot to pieces,” growled Lenning, “and I’ve got to go up against this paragon who never side-steps his training and settle a big score with him. Will he be too much for me? He will, sure, unless I can get at him in some underhand way. That’s the idea!” he finished.
Then, for an hour, he tried to think of some “underhand way” in which he could make young Merriwell feel the full force of his vengeance. Lenning was unscrupulous, to a certain extent, and his association with Shoup was well calculated to make him more so; nevertheless, Lenning had some shreds of character and self-respect left, although they formed a very imperfect foundation on which to build for better things.
While Lenning was still busy with his thoughts, Billy Shoup came briskly back along the trail. Lenning started up as he drew close, and stared at the triumphant look on his waxlike face.
“I reckon you found what you were looking for,” said he.
“You can bet a blue stack I did,” was the answer. “It wasn’t the dope case, either, Len.”
“Not that?” queried the startled Len. “What was it, then?”