“That seems more probable.”
“Well, what we do now?” Toma had grown impatient. “I think it be foolish to stay here in brush all night. Better we start right back an’ see if we find ’em Corporal Rand.”
“But suppose the corporal didn’t release Burnnel and Emery?” Dick asked perplexed. “We’d be foolish to run away then. The least we could do, would be to keep in sight of them. Remember, Creel has already escaped.”
In exasperation, Sandy strode over to a fallen tree trunk and sat down, moping his perspiring forehead with short, angry jabs, a scowl on his face.
“O pshaw! What’s the use? Everything’s turning out all wrong. We’re getting deeper and deeper and deeper into trouble every minute. I’m through! I’ll never become a policeman or a good detective—I know I won’t. I’m growing tired of all this, Dick. It’s wearing on my nerves. It is, I tell you.”
Dick and Toma both laughed.
“Nonsense, Sandy! This is a game of wits. I like it.” Dick made a comical gesture with his hands. “All you have to do is to out-guess the other fellow. We’ll win in the end. We’re bound to.”
“Oh, is that so. A guessing contest!” The other’s tones were deeply sarcastic. “Well, if that’s the case, we’re at the losing end right now. How many of your guesses have been correct?”
Boy-fashion, Dick strode over and placed a hand on his chum’s indignant shoulder.
“Forget it, Sandy. This isn’t a bit like you. Come on!”