“Supper’s ready—that’s what I looked in to tell you. Place for you, Blunt. Going back to Ophir to-night?”
“I hear there’s a race on to-morrow forenoon,” returned Blunt, “and I’d sort of made up my mind to hang around and take a hand in it.”
“Good for you!” cried Merriwell.
“But,” the cowboy went on, with an odd gleam in his black eyes, “I don’t want any more bowlders tumbling from Apache Point if I’m to be in one of the canoes.”
“Now that Shoup and Lenning have cleared out,” cried Clancy, “I’ll guarantee there won’t be any more rocks rolling down the cliff. Come on and let’s eat.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE RACE FOR SINGLE PADDLES.
“Get a move on, Bleek! Ginger up, pard, ginger up!”
“Good work, Merry! That’s the way to show ’em your heels!”
“Dig, old scout! Why don’t you dig?”