“Go it, boys! I’ll bet two to one on Vermont! Yankee Doodle forever!”
“Stand off, ye black pirut!” howled Ephraim, who had been somewhat blinded by the splashed water. “Keep yeour dirty hands off me, or I’ll——Wa-ow!”
Over went the boat, precipitating the boatman and the Yankee lad into the water, where there was a general floundering about, much to the amusement of the other passengers.
Frank Merriwell’s hearty laugh rang out.
“If this is a sample of what we’ll strike in Morocco, we’ll have fun,” he cried.
Ephraim came to the surface, spouting like a whale.
“Hang ye!” he squealed, standing up and shaking his fist at the bewildered Arab. “Yeou wait till we git on dry land, critter! I’ll fix ye!”
Then he began to wade ashore.
“I am surprised, Ephraim,” said Frank, soberly, “that you should make such a racket over a matter like this. The tan-colored gentleman simply wished to carry you ashore, as the water is too shoal to permit the boats to approach nearer. You will observe that all the passengers are going ashore in that manner.”
The lad from Vermont looked around, seeing that Frank spoke the truth. The ladies were being carried ashore in chairs, while the male passengers bestrode the necks of the Arabs and negroes.