“But nobody has accused any of the loggers of the crime,” remarked Frank, and at that the head projecting from the opening at the door came a little further into view; which was pretty good evidence, Frank thought, that the wounded boy must take considerable interest in the discussion.
“Why, who else would try to turn on Mr. Darrel that way, and burn his shanties down just when winter is setting in?” asked Bluff.
“We can only give a guess at that,” Frank told him.
“Whew!” exclaimed Bluff, as he grasped the meaning back of those few words. “After all, I wouldn’t put it past him, Frank.”
“Who—what—where—how?” demanded Will, apparently confused, and not able to understand what all these strange hints portended.
“We had a specimen of his nasty temper, you know,” continued Bluff. “Yes, twice now we’ve heard him tear around like a bull in a china shop.”
“Oh! now I tumble to what you mean,” cried Will, who did not often use any sort of slang, and must therefore have been unusually excited to fall into the habit. “It’s Bill—Bill Nackerson!”
Frank nodded his head.
“He’s the only party around that we know of who would be mean enough to try to set buildings on fire, just to get even with a man he disliked,” he observed.
“Yes, and didn’t we hear him threaten to do something before long, so as to hit back at Mr. Darrel?” Jerry wanted to know, as if he had all along been suspicious of the big sportsman.