He was now standing with his back against the partly-open door surveying the crowd with such a curious expression that Larry’s uneasiness changed like a flash into alarm. The man’s eyes seemed to suggest a curious mixture of triumph and maliciousness.
“Sit down, fellows,” commanded the ranchman. “Make yourselves at home.”
Dave Brandon, usually the first to comply with such invitations, gave the little man a swift, keen glance.
“That tired feeling I had has sort of worn off,” he remarked. He glanced significantly toward Sam Randall. “So I don’t think we’ll stay.”
The moment these words were spoken Larry Burnham, yielding to his fears, attempted to pass Hank Styles.
“You don’t think you’ll stay, eh?” yelled the ranchman savagely. “But I reckon you will—you confounded lot of spies!”
As though overpowered with rage he gave the blond lad a mighty push which sent him staggering back, to bring up violently in the arms of Sam Randall.
The room was in an uproar at once. Dave Brandon leaped forward.
Hank Styles, however, with the agility of a cat, eluded him, and by an adroit movement of his foot almost sent the stout boy to the floor. Then, with a yell of derision, he slipped outside the room, and before the combined rush of angry and excited boys could prevent it had closed the great door with a bang. Instantly they heard the ominous sound of the lock being turned.
“Trapped!” groaned Larry Burnham. “Oh, what easy marks!”