“Hi, Dig!” shouted Chet, beckoning to his chum.
“Now, don’t ask for the core,” mumbled Dig, with his mouth full. “There ain’t going to be no core. Ask Rafe for a hand-out yourself.”
“Don’t think everybody is as greedy as you are,” said Chet. “Come on here. I believe there is going to be trouble.”
He said the last in a low voice after his chum had reached his side.
“What d’you mean—trouble?” queried Dig.
“The men are dreadfully sore on Tony Traddles.”
“And why shouldn’t they be?” demanded Digby. “He’d ought to be tarred and feathered.”
“Sh! Some of them might hear you.”
“And I should worry about that!” cried Dig slangily.
“There’s something going to happen to Tony, I do believe,” whispered Chet. “You see, your father’s paid him. Now he’s going up the hill. And a bunch of the men hurried over behind that hill a few minutes ago.”