Dave mused for a moment.
“Would it be just right to play the spy, Roger?” 112
“Well, this isn’t playing the spy in the ordinary sense of the term, Dave. That wild man ought to be locked up.”
“But it may not be the wild man he is looking for.”
“Oh, let us go back a little while, anyway,” urged the senator’s son.
They retraced their steps until within fifty feet of the bonfire and then walked to the shelter of the hedge. They thought they had not been seen, but they were mistaken.
“Humph! so you think you are going to spy on me, after all!” cried a voice, and Nat Poole came towards them, with a deep frown on his face.
“It’s rather queer you are in the tree,” answered Roger, somewhat sharply.
“It’s my affair, not yours, Roger Morr!” roared the money-lender’s son. Then, without another word, he walked to the bonfire, kicked the blazing sticks into the river, and strode off in the direction of the Hall.
“He’s good and mad,” was Roger’s comment.