Bull Harris and his companions stole into camp about as disgusted and frightened a lot of yearlings as ever were anywhere. They hurried past the sentry without even stopping to signal him. For what did they care now? They were expelled, all of them! They stood by the camp-fire for a few moments disconsolately, whispering together. And then they scattered to their tents and proceeded to pass the long, weary night as best they could.
Each of the tents in “Camp Lookout” held two occupants. Bull and Gus Murray tented together, and they went in, sat down and then stared at each other lugubriously. Neither of them said anything for some time, for neither had anything to say.
“How do you suppose Allen found it out?” whispered Bull, at last.
“I don’t know,” growled the other. “He saw us go out, I guess. Or, perhaps somebody told him; Mallory for instance.”
“It would be just like him,” returned Bull, though he knew that Murray didn’t mean that remark seriously. “Confound it, Gus, do you know what makes me dread to get fired for this is that idea of having that confounded plebe gloat over it! Plague take the luck! I could——”
Bull stopped just then; there was a startling interruption. Merry Vance’s sallow face peered into the tent, and Merry was panting with excitement.
“What’s the matter?” cried Bull.
“Allen—Allen, man!”
“What about him?”
“He’s in his tent!”