“Well, not—er—not exactly ill,” he answered; “but he isn’t feeling well enough to talk with anyone, Roy. I hope you don’t mind?”
This treatment from his comrade piqued Hooker. “I didn’t suppose,” he said, “that Fred would refuse to see me unless he was dangerously ill in bed—and I know he isn’t that. It’s all right, though. Will you please tell him that Barville won the game?”
Turning, he walked slowly away, his brow knitted with perplexity.
“I can’t understand it,” he told himself once more. “It’s too much for me. He isn’t sick, that’s sure; and still, his father says that he doesn’t feel well. Possibly,” he added resentfully, “the information that Barville trimmed us will make him feel better.”
CHAPTER XVII.
WORK OF THE YOUNG DETECTIVE.
That evening a group of somewhat doleful-looking boys gathered in front of the Oakdale post-office and shivered as they discussed the game. Without a single dissenting voice they blamed Sage for their failure to win from Barville.
Sleuth Piper appeared, hurried into the post-office and presented himself at the delivery window.
“Look a’ the businesslike bustle of the great detective,” said Crane, watching Piper through the window. “Anyone would sorter s’pose he expected to receive about a bushel of important mail. I bet he don’t get a thing.”
“You lose,” said Hunk Rollins, as a letter was passed out to Sleuth. “He’s got something.”
Before opening the letter, Piper was seen eagerly scanning the postmark upon the envelope, and the watchers fancied there was an expression of mingled excitement and satisfaction upon his face. Coming forth, Sleuth paused in front of a lighted window a short distance from the others and tore his letter open. In a moment he was eagerly intent upon the contents.