“Say, Chip,” said Clancy, when the Gold Hillers had vanished over the edge of the mesa, “when I took Lenning’s hand I felt as though I had a fistful of cold fish. Allow me to repeat what I said before—that Lenning person is strictly nig.”
“Let it go at that, Clan,” answered Merry. “The rest of the Gold Hillers are all right.”
“It’s a hard job, making friends with that outfit,” said Handy, coming up just then and mopping the sweat from his face. “Everybody’s under a good deal of a strain, and most of the Gold Hillers seem to be taking their cue from Lenning. He’s a pill.”
“Sugar-coated,” grinned Clancy, “when the colonel’s around.”
“He makes me sick,” grunted Handy bluntly. “We’ve taken the colonel on for referee,” he continued, to Merriwell, “by way of showing our good will. Let’s go up on the mesa and get busy. I’ll be glad as blazes when this game is over with.”
“Them’s my sentiments, too, old man,” added Clancy, dropping in beside Merriwell as the Ophir team started for the field.
Gold Hill won the toss. The wind was at its back, and a Gold Hill toe lifted the ball far into the field.
The game was on. From the side lines, Merriwell and Clancy were watching every move with keen, critical eyes.