“I don’t know what will happen, Clan, but if I leave it will be to follow Guffey. Don’t ask any questions. I’m playing a bigger game than this little match at football.”
The red-headed fellow was all up in the air. His freckled face reflected his conflicting emotions.
Frank, turning to keep track of Guffey, saw Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, beckoning to him. He got up and walked over to the deputy’s side.
“I’m keepin’ an eye on that Guffey person, Merriwell,” said Hawkins. “You don’t need to bother.”
“What are you watching him for, Hawkins?” Frank asked.
“Because I don’t like his looks. He’s a pill.”
“He’s the Gold Hill coach, and you’re not to interfere with him, you know.”
“Mebby not, but what’re you baitin’ him for?”
They were both unconsciously peering toward Guffey. At that moment, the Gold Hill coach turned suddenly and gave the two of them a full, level stare. When he turned away, he acted like a person who is considerably wrought up and trying to conceal it.
“Wow!” chuckled Hawkins. “Say, son, he don’t like seein’ you and me in talk, like this. He’s makin’ a bluff that he don’t care—but it’s a bluff. Why does he care? You better tell me.”