“I—I can’t!” weakly, whispered the defeated chap. “No—use—dad!”
Then he dropped back and lay sprawled out on the floor.
CHAPTER XII
AN IMPROMPTU CANOE RACE.
Water was dashed into Cole’s face, and he was given a swallow or two. It was some minutes before he could sit on a chair without threatening to pitch off to the floor.
When he could sit up he looked around for Dick.
Merriwell was there, and, as he stepped forward, he said:
“I hope you’re not badly hurt, Cole. I didn’t mean to wind it up this way, but you forced me. I had to.”
“That’s all right,” said Cole in a low tone. “It’s not wound up yet!”
“Whatever does he want, pard?” exclaimed Buckhart. “Is he piggish enough to be itching for any more?”