in the lock. At the same time there was an impatient muttering.
"That's not Mendez," decided Tom. "And from the voice it's none of our fellows, either. I wonder if it can be Boswell?"
The complications that might ensue if it was the rich student, who seemed to be sharing some secret with the Mexican, kept Tom busy thinking for a few seconds, and then his attention was further drawn toward the person outside.
"Hang it all!" exclaimed a voice in nasal tones—plainly the voice of an elderly man—"he's got some newfangled kind of a lock on here, and I can't get in. I wonder if a window is open?"
There was the rattle of a bunch of keys being returned to a pocket, and then the sound of footsteps coming around to the side of the shack.
"He's going to try my game," thought Tom. "Well if it isn't Mendez it's someone who hasn't any more right in here than I have, and I'm not in so much danger. But who can it be?"
There was a struggle at the window, the sound of a fall, as if the attempt to enter had failed. Then came muttered words of anger and pain, and they were followed by the sound of feet beating a tattoo on the side of the shack.
"He's scrambling up to the window," thought Tom, pulling the cot blankets farther down.
A moment later someone dropped down inside
