Merriwell’s attention wandered a good deal. He was wondering how he had better approach the colonel on the delicate subject he had in mind. His acquaintance with Hawtrey was not of very long standing, and he might almost call himself a stranger to the big man of Gold Hill. Frank winced when he thought of broaching the matter—which was largely a family affair—to Lenning’s uncle.
As soon as the forenoon was over, and dinner out of the way, Frank made his preparations for the ride to Gold Hill. While he was engaged with them, Ballard suddenly thrust his head into the tent.
“You won’t need to take that trip to Gold Hill, Chip,” announced Ballard.
“Why not?”
“Because the colonel is here, old man. He’s got a chip on each shoulder, too, if I’m any judge. He wants you, and no one else. Say, but he’s in a temper!”
“I’ve got a job on my hands,” muttered Merry, “and no mistake. Tell him I’ll be along in about two minutes, Pink.”
Frank nerved himself for what he knew was to be an ordeal, and presently he left the tent and made his way toward the place where Colonel Hawtrey, in the worst kind of a temper, was pacing back and forth under the cottonwoods.
[CHAPTER XXX.]
MERRIWELL MISJUDGED.
The lads of the camp, aware that something momentous was brewing, kept at a discreet distance from the colonel. They were plainly ill at ease, although it was equally plain that they were trying not to show it. Ballard, Clancy, Brad, and Handy formed a little group by themselves. They had inside information as to what was going on, and watched developments with considerably more anxiety than the rest of the campers.