Again Tom listened. The fumbling at the lock of the door continued.
“If that’s Mendez he doesn’t seem to know how to open his own door,” mused Tom. “Maybe he’s got the wrong key.”
This seemed to be so, for there was a jingling as of several keys, and then a voice was heard to mutter. Tom started in his hiding place under the cot.
“That’s not the voice of Mendez!” he exclaimed. “What am I up against?”
A wild idea came to him.
“Maybe some of our fellows got wise to the same thing I did, and they’re trying to get in here,” he thought. “If they see me there’ll be a surprise,” and he smiled grimly.
The unknown person outside the shack seemed to be trying a number of keys, one after the other, in the lock. At the same time there was an impatient muttering.
“That’s not Mendez,” decided Tom. “And from the voice it’s none of our fellows, either. I wonder if it can be Boswell?”
The complications that might ensue if it was the rich student, who seemed to be sharing some secret with the Mexican, kept Tom busy thinking for a few seconds, and then his attention was further drawn toward the person outside.
“Hang it all!” exclaimed a voice in nasal tones—plainly the voice of an elderly man—“he’s got some newfangled kind of a lock on here, and I can’t get in. I wonder if a window is open?”