“If Davenport is out of the pen, Phil Franklin ought to know something about it,” said Fred. For Phil and his father lived in the oil fields and had had considerable dealings with the rascals mentioned.
“If Davenport is around here we had better keep our eyes open,” came from Randy. “I don’t trust that chap any more than I’d trust a rattlesnake.”
“I guess none of us would,” returned Fred. “Gee! how mad he was when he sunk that twenty thousand dollars he and Tate and Jackson put up, not to say anything about the small fortune contributed by the Martells, the Browns and Mr. Werner.”
As it was now raining harder, the boys hurried to the Hall and then up to their rooms to get ready for the mid-day meal. On Sunday all military exercises were dispensed with. On the stairs they met Phil Franklin and immediately asked him if he had a few minutes to spare.
“Sure,” was Phil’s ready response. “Haven’t got a thing to do until the bell rings for grub.”
“Come on to our rooms while we’re fixing up,” said Jack.
Once in the rooms occupied by the Rovers, the latter acquainted the boy from the oil fields with what had taken place on the road.
“Davenport here? Oh, you must be mistaken!” said Phil. “Why, he’s in prison down in Texas. And so are Tate and Jackson.”
“Then you haven’t heard anything of their being released?” said Jack.
“Not a thing. And I don’t think they have been.”