Everything went ahead in
an orderly manner.
"I don't suppose you could get any rest, under the circumstances, Mr.
Reade," hinted the superintendent, "yet that is just what you are going
to need."
"Rest?" echoed Tom, gazing at the man, in a strange, wide-eyed way, while
a grim smile flickered around the corners of his mouth. "What have rest
and I to do with each other just now?"
"Yet there's nothing you can do here."
"I am here, anyway," Reade retorted. "I'm on the spot---that's something."
"Let me run back to the house and get you some blankets," urged the
superintendent. "Then you can lie down on the sand and rest. Of course
I know you can't sleep at present."
"It is not necessary go back," volunteered a voice behind them. "I have
the blankets."
"Nicolas!" gasped Tom, in surprise. "How did you know I was here?"
"I wake up when you talk to Meester Renshaw," replied the Mexican simply.
"I listen. I know, now---poor Senor Hazelton!"
Nicolas's voice broke, and, as he stepped closer, Tom beheld some large
tears trickling down the little Mexican's face.
"Nicolas, you're a good fellow!" cried Tom, impulsively, "but I don't want
the blankets. Spread them on the sand, then lie down on them yourself
until I need you.
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