"What do I care?"
"Maybe you will," Ben Comas put in. He begrudged Horrors the admiration of the other lads. He was not generous enough in any particular to be a leader himself, and he envied the good-looking youth's lordly ways and the subservience that he commanded so easily of his mates. "This business isn't finished."
"Well, we'll stay till the finish, Bennie," drawled the other. "What's the use of crossing bridges till you come to them? That doesn't get you anywhere."
"Aw—well," muttered Comas, shaking his head.
"But suppose this Kingdon and his gang walk in on us?" asked Harry Kirby, suddenly. "What about that?"
"The island's big enough, isn't it, for two camps?" demanded Horrors.
"Mebbe it isn't," grunted Pudge. "This Rex Kingdon is a fighter."
"Pshaw! You don't mean it, Pudge? Who told you so much, and your hair not curly?" drawled Horrors with lifted brows and his usual lazy smile that displayed the line of his white and even teeth.
That smile marred his rather attractive countenance, for the lift of the lip was almost canine. He was dark-haired, and his brows seemed painted over his steady eyes, so clear was his olive complexion. The contrast of his black hair and brows with his almost colorless skin was somewhat startling. The budding mustache on his lip was jet black, too. This "down" on a blond fellow would scarcely have been observed; it made Horace Pence seem several years older than he actually was.
"I suppose," he pursued, his drawling accents making Pudge MacComber flush, "you think this constable is going to put us all in the calaboose over at Blackport? That is what is troubling all you fellows."