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Fearing that his appearance would cause a sensation, Bob waded and then swam across the shallow river and struck off to one side, meaning to circle around to the upper camp. Then he could slip into the Quarter-house by the back way. “Has Uncle Isaac trouble with his heart?” asked Johnny, thinking he would tell about the kerosene cure. Bob’s perch on the tower was far from comfortable, so he hoped the conference going on below him would last no great length of time. The thin iron rungs of the ladder cut into his legs and his arms had begun to ache from the strain of holding himself in place without making any noise that would give him away. To add to his discomfort, he soon realized that although he could overhear clearly every word that passed between the figures on the ground it would do him no good, as they were talking in Spanish, a language in which Bob remembered Jerry could at least make himself understood. Since his arrival at the dam, the Eastern boy had made some attempt to pick up a working knowledge of it, but his time had been so short that he had not got very far. Therefore, only a word here and there meant anything to him and as these were simple words, they gave no clue to what was being discussed..

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“Mr. Whitney told me something about it and the reason I’m late to-day is that I got mixed up in the mess—” This was signed with nothing less than the Principal’s name. Not just a teacher’s—no, thank you! A credit to the school. The whistling grew louder and more piercing. A credit to the school. He was going straight to Father with this report, and would lay it right under Father’s nose. “I can well believe it,” said Aunt Grenertsen. “People never stay at home in these days. They are forever flying about.” The wind whistled in his ears and he was choked by the rapid ascent, yet the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. It was like riding in the fastest elevator he’d ever been in—at triple the speed..