Boy Scouts in Mexico | Page 9

had a key turned on him before. He threw himself into a chair,
then, realizing how selfish he was, he hastened to the north room and
again bent over the injured man.
There appeared to be little change in Mr. Cameron's condition. He
moved restlessly at intervals. Fremont brought water and used it freely,
but its application did not produce any immediate effect. Realizing that
a surgeon should be summoned at once, the boy moved toward the
telephone.

However, he found himself unable to bring himself to the point of
communicating with the surgeon he had in mind. Questions would be
asked, and he would be suspected, and the intervention of the Boy
Scouts could do him no good. He understood now that his every hope
for the future centered in the little lad who was hurrying through the
night in quest of Ned Nestor, his patrol leader. If these boys of the Wolf
Patrol should decide against him, and the injured man should not
recover, there was the end of life and of hope. And only an hour ago he
had planned the wonderful excursion down the Rio Grande. That time
seemed farther away to him now than the birth of Adam.
And mixed with the horror of the situation was the mystery of it! What
motive could have actuate the criminal? Had the blow been struck by a
personal enemy, in payment of a grudge, or had robbery been the
motive? Surely not the latter, for the injured man's valuable watch and
chain, his diamonds, were in place. Stocks and bonds, good in the
hands of any holder, lay on the floor in front of the open safe. A robber
would have taken both bonds and jewelry.
The one reasonable theory was that the act had been committed by
some person in quest of papers kept in the office files. The manner in
which the desk and safe had been ransacked showed that a thorough
search for something had been made. Directly the boy heard Mr.
Cameron speaking and hastened to his side. If he had regained
consciousness, the nightmare of suspicion would pass away.
"Fremont! Fremont! He did it! He did it!"
This was worse than all the rest. Mr. Cameron was still out of his head,
but his words indicated that he might have fallen under the blow with
the impression in his mind that it was Fremont who had attacked him.
At least the words he was repeating over and over again would leave no
doubt in the minds of the officers as to who the guilty party was. While
Fremont was mentally facing this new danger, the corridor door was
roughly shaken and a harsh voice demanded admittance.
It was Jim Scoby, the night watchman, a sullen, brutal fellow who had
always shown dislike for the boy. Why should he be asking admission?

Did he suspect? But the fellow went away presently, threatening to call
the police and have the door broken down, and then two persons
stopped in front of the door.
Fremont could hear them talking, but could not distinguish the words
spoken. It seemed, however, that one of the voices was that of Jimmie
McGraw, who had gone out after his patrol leader.
The question in the mind of the waiting boy now was this:
Had Jimmie brought his patrol leader, or had he brought an officer of
the law?
And there was another question connected with this one, that depended
upon the manner in which the first one was answered:
Would it be the Black Bear Patrol excursion down the Rio Grande, the
sweet Spring in the South, or would it be the Tombs prison with its
brutal keepers and blighted lives?
CHAPTER III.
THE WOLF ADVISES FLIGHT.
The question was settled in a moment, for a key was thrust into the lock
and the door swung open. The night watchman had possessed no key
when at the door, for which the boy was thankful. Two persons entered
and the door was closed and locked.
"Who's been here?" asked Jimmie, panting from his long climb. "We
heard a voice in this corridor, and met the watchman down below. He's
red-headed about something. That feller's of about as much use here as
a chorus lady painted on the back drop. I told him that you'd probably
gone to sleep over your work. Here, Black Bear," he continued, with a
grin, "meet Mr. Wolf, otherwise Ned Nestor. You fellers get together
right now."
Fremont saw a sturdy boy of little less than eighteen, a lad with a face

that one would trust instinctively. His dark eyes met the blue ones of
the patrol leader steadily. There was no suspicion of guilt in his
manner.
Ned Nestor extended his hand frankly, his strong, clean-cut face
sympathetic.