On his high, dark, and undeniably handsome face there was a look of mingled worry and anger. His eyes seemed haggard, and Bully Carson chuckled to himself as he recalled what his father had said about Randall brooding over a fancied injury. It was quite plain that Randall was in good shape to be worked on.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Bully. “What you listenin’ for?”
Randall dropped into a chair, wiping his brow.
“I thought old man Dobbs had seen me come in,” he explained nervously. “You see, I got held up at school, couldn’t get away earlier, and had to sneak past the guards. I came in the hotel by the back entrance.”
“How’ll you get back to your room?”
“Easy,” said the Southerner. “Rope to the window. I won’t want to be seen around here, though, or I might get reported. Old Dobbs knows me by sight.”
Carson nodded, and flung himself into a chair.
“I hear you got beaten to the captaincy of the nine,” he observed. “That kid Merriwell seems to cop out everything.”
Randall’s face flushed.
“What did you want to see me about?” he said, with a scowl.