Merriwell clasped the hand heartily.
“It was anybody’s race for a while, Bleek,” he answered. “If we had it to do over again, more than likely you’d trim me.”
“Not so you could notice it, old man. You’re a stayer from Stayerville, and I take off my hat to you as the better man.”
It was to be noticed that the cheering over Merry’s victory was general, and the Gold Hill boys joined in it quite as heartily as did Frank’s chums and his cowboy friend. As Merry brought his canoe to the bank and hopped ashore, he was greeted by the lad whose voice he had heard so unexpectedly while the canoes were bearing down on the float.
“Up to your old tricks, eh, Chip?” laughed this youth. “If I had known what was on for this morning, I’d have tried to get here earlier.”
“Hannibal Bradlaugh, by Jove!” cried Merry, taking a grip on the hand that was pushed out to him.
Ever since Merry had come to southern Arizona he had known the son of the president of the Ophir Athletic Club. The clubs at Ophir and Gold Hill were rivals—bitter rivals, at one time, but now, in a great measure, owing to Merriwell’s efforts, all the bitterness was a thing of the past.
“Hello, Brad!” called Bleeker, pushing forward to take the hand Merriwell had released. “The last of that performance was the best part of it, so you didn’t miss a whole lot by getting here late. If you’ve come to stay for a while, we’ll give you a chance to take a hand in some of these water sports.”
“I’m not going to have my scalp dangling at any Gold Hill belt,” Brad laughed, “and that’s what would happen if I got hold of a paddle and tried to do anything. Anyhow, I didn’t come to stay for more than a few minutes. I’m after Chip. He’s wanted in Ophir.”
“News from Bloomfield?” Frank asked, lifting his eyes quickly.