And as the darkness deepened a slender, boyish figure lay on his stomach and wiggled cautiously nearer and nearer, taking the utmost pains not to be seen.
This eavesdropper was Pablo, and he evinced the greatest interest in all they were saying; but it was when Frank spoke or sang that he listened with the utmost attention, keeping perfectly still. Thus it was that the boy heard Hodge say:
"Merriwell, I'm half-inclined to believe that dirty little Mexican rascal is a fakir. I suspect him."
"Of what?" asked Frank.
"Of being a spy. He told a slick tale, but I've had time to think it over, and somehow it seems too thin. Why shouldn't Bill send him here to play the spy?"
"My dear Bart," said Merry, with a laugh, "what would be Bill's object? What could the boy do?"
"He might get a chance to put a knife in your back, old man."
"I'll chance it. I do not believe Pablo that bad. I'll trust him."
"Well, I wouldn't trust any greaser."
"I hate you, Señor Hodge!" whispered the listening boy, to himself. "I hate you; but I lofe Frank Merriwell!"