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.
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