“This here is a kind of an old place,” began Hank Styles, as the boys entered the ranch-house. “We never went in for no fancy fixin’s, like Walt Allen over to Fool’s Castle. I reckon you might as well come right up-stairs.”
He led them to a rough wooden stairway which led up from the main room.
Hank Styles waited until all had passed, then followed.
It impressed Larry Burnham as being rather singular that they should be conducted to the second floor, and suddenly his comfortable feeling of security vanished. Bob Somers was a pretty bright chap, he reflected, and his suspicions might be justified. The echoing of their footsteps sounded through the big ranch-house with dismal, uncanny clearness. He didn’t like the little ranchman following so close behind, as though driving them before him.
“Here we are!” Hank Styles’ rough voice broke in harshly upon his meditations. “If this here ain’t a nice room I never seen one. Plenty of stools. A nice bench. We ain’t got no books or other foolish things; but that there view out the winder can be looked at a long time.”
Larry Burnham, brushing past the ranchman, noted the massiveness of the door and its powerful lock.
“It’s certainly a big room,” said Dave.
Tom stepped quickly over to the window.
“I don’t see much to gaze at,” he sniffed.
“That there is the beauty of it,” remarked Hank Styles, coolly. “You’ve got to look a long time before you kin see where it comes in.”