Darrel’s announcement that he was, or had been, a member of the Gold Hill club, caused the Ophir fellows to draw back into their shells somewhat, and to eye him with distrust. Their altered demeanor was so plain that Darrel noticed it.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, looking blankly into the faces that surrounded him. “Have I stepped on the tail of somebody’s coat, or trampled on somebody’s toes?”
“Never mind, Darrel,” laughed Frank. “Professor,” he added, to Borrodaile, “take Darrel to our wickiup and make him comfortable. I’ll have a talk with him as soon as we take a dip in the pool.”
The professor led the puzzled Darrel away, while Merry and his companions hurried off for a short swim after their dusty run.
“Don’t like the way this Darrel is shaping up,” grumbled Spink, splashing around in the water.
“Nor I,” seconded Handy. “How do we know but that the Gold Hill crowd have steered him this way to spy on us?”
“If he’s a spy, Handy,” said Frank, “then he’s a good deal of a fool. Would a spy talk like he did?”
“He would not!” declared Ballard.
“The last time we went up against Gold Hill at football,” remarked Bradlaugh, “we found that they had all our signals down pat. Maybe they’re making another play of that kind.”
As hurriedly as he could, Frank gave himself a rub-down and got into his clothes.