“You go to blazes!” growled Ballard. “If you know so much about catching runaway pigs, maybe you’d better go with Blunt and let me trail along with Chip.”
“Come on, Bal,” cried the cowboy, and started off, running awkwardly in his feet-pinching, high-heeled boots.
Without waiting for further talk, Ballard took after Blunt. Merry and Clancy watched until the little cloud of dust, representing the pig, had crossed the rim of the cañon and vanished down the steep slope; then, turning, they set their faces toward the clubhouse.
“That was more fun than a box of monkeys, Chip,” chuckled Clancy. “I wish I could be around to see how the chase comes out.”
“They’ll catch the pig, of course,” laughed Merriwell. “It means five dollars to Sing, and he’ll never give up until he lays the porker by the heels. Ballard and Blunt couldn’t very well give up the chase and leave the Chinaman to go it alone.”
For a few moments the two chums walked onward, chuckling and snickering over recent events; then, as they drew near the clubhouse, Merry’s face suddenly straightened.
“Now, Clan,” said he, “we’re right up to one of the hardest jobs we ever tackled. Let’s get serious.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A GOOD WORD FOR LENNING.
It was Monday forenoon, and the second day after Merriwell’s pick-up nine had clashed on the diamond with the team from Gold Hill.