In a minute he learned more important things. There were four in the tent, and they were playing cards. One fellow was whining:
"I don't wanta play any more. Ben has all the luck. I've lost too much now."
"Why, you poor fish!" said another voice. "This isn't real money we're playing for. It's only for fun."
"Just the same, Kirby, Ben always sets it down against me when he wins; and I owe him enough already—more'n I can pay," was the frank statement.
"Aw, come on, Pudge! Be a sport," urged a third speaker.
"So Cousin Ben keeps a day-book account on you, does he?" drawled the fourth player. "Ben's going to be a wealthier man than his father some day."
"Mind your own business, Horrors," snapped the one called "Ben." "If you and Harry Kirby are silly enough to play for matches, not me. I want some go in the game—and so does Pudge."
"That so, Pudge?" drawled the same laughing voice.
"I wouldn't mind if I won once in a while," confessed the fat youth, whose humped shoulders were so near Rex Kingdon on the other side of the canvas that the listener could have trumped him—and was tempted to!
The brief dialogue, however, had told the eavesdropper much. There were four in the tent, and all boys. From the manner of their talk and their occupation, he was sure that they were fellows who would not be too squeamish about breaking trespass laws. Rex was confident, too, that they must be settled here on Storm Island for some time.