“Help ketchee, help ketchee!” he flung over his shoulder, in an imploring voice, as he raced onward.
“That’s the darndest, most contrary pig I ever saw in my life!” fumed Ballard.
“He’s not used to chinks,” laughed Blunt, “and that’s all the trouble.”
“Pink tried to hog all the Chinaman’s trouble,” said Clancy, “and now he’s sore because he got just a little of it.”
“Gee!” exclaimed young Merriwell; “the pig’s going like a streak, and he’ll be in the cañon in about two minutes. No chance of overhauling him so long as he sets a pace like that.”
The trail Frank and his friends were traveling was the one leading from town to the clubhouse and athletic field of the Ophir Athletic Club. This was also the main trail to Gold Hill; and, at the point where the clubhouse road branched away, the pig had exercised considerable discrimination by keeping right on toward Gold Hill.
The frantic Woo Sing was leading the pursuit. His tattered garments were fluttering and snapping around him in the wind of his flight, and his long queue was standing straight out behind. The pig was a mere flurry of dust in the distance.
At the place where the trail forked to lead to the clubhouse, Frank drew to a halt.
“We can’t all of us go on and help Sing, fellows,” said he. “There’s work for us at the golf links, and we can’t waste time getting there. Ballard, you and Blunt go on and help recapture the pig. Clan and I will hunt up Mr. Bradlaugh and Colonel Hawtrey and see what we can do for Lenning.”
“There’s your chance, Pink,” laughed Clancy. “Go ahead and stir yourself. But I’d advise you not to get too much in the pig’s way. If he makes a dead set at you, just swing around, get on his back, and ride. Do that, and it won’t be long before you tire him out and get him so he’ll eat out of your hand.”