Crauthers was eager for the test. He told himself it would be great satisfaction to bring about a clash between Chester and Bunol. It would give him the keenest satisfaction to watch Bunol knock Chester out. But could Bunol do it? Surely not unless he attacked Arlington unawares and without warning. The Spaniard, however, was just the one to make such an attack. It was like him to spring on the back of an unsuspecting enemy. “How much do you hate Chet Arlington?” asked Stark, as he turned to Bunol, who was now coolly smoking a cigarette. “How much? You wait, you see.” “But you must prove that you hate him. We can’t trust you unless you convince us. You have been his friend. How can we be sure you are not so still?” “How you want me to prove it?” “You must jump him!” palpitated Crauthers. “You must give him a good thumping.” “When?” “First chance you get.” “All right,” said Bunol. “I do that. I show you. Then you know I hate him same as I hate Deek Merriwell.” Crauthers was filled with the greatest satisfaction. Was it possible Bunol would keep his word? Then it would be fine to turn the fellow against Chet Arlington. One thing that had brought Mark Crauthers to the Den that evening was a desire to induce the others to stand with him in a plan to humiliate and punish Arlington. And now they had stumbled on a way of accomplishing that purpose without taking the work in their own hands. So Bunol was again admitted to the circle, and they sat about the fire, warming their fingers and smoking. The blaze flared fitfully, lighting their faces and filling the interior of the Den with a pleasant glow. Like brigands were they there in that snug retreat of the tangled woods. The wind did not reach them, for the thicket broke it. At times it rose and roared above their heads. The trees creaked at intervals, but in all that strip of woods no living creature save themselves seemed present. Winter was at hand. The breath of King Cold was sweeping across the world. Yet they were warm and comfortable in their sheltered retreat. With blankets and a fire they could have passed the night there in an agreeable manner. “I’m getting sick of school,” said Crauthers, tenderly caressing his swollen eye. “I’d like to get away. I’d like to go West, or somewhere, and live in the woods, and just hunt and fish and do as I pleased. Wouldn’t it be great, fellows?” “It might be all right for a while,” said Stark; “but you’d get sick of it pretty soon.” Crauthers shook his head. “Don’t you think it!” he exclaimed. “I used to think I’d go to sea, or run away and become a cowboy; but, of course, I’ve gotten over that, for I’ve found out going to sea isn’t such fun, and the cowboy business is getting played out. All the same, a fellow could be a nomad and just hunt and fish and——” “And tramp!” laughed Stark. “No, thank you! I have no desire to lead the life of a hobo.”