“Forget it, Clan,” said his chum shortly; “go to sleep.”
Amid the silence that dropped over the camp, Silva’s voice, from the grove, could be heard calling: “Bonita! li’l wan, coom dis-a-way! Hyah, hyah, hyah!”
Then, from down in the cañon, Fritz would howl wrathfully: “Vait, you greaser scallavag! Bymby, I bed you, I make you vistle by der odder site oof your mout’.”
Finally the Mexican tired of jeering at Fritz, and the boys in the tents succeeded in going to sleep.
Next morning, as Frank was getting into his clothes after a plunge in the swimming pool, he asked Brad and Ballard if they had thought of anything that could be done to straighten out matters between the two athletic clubs.
“I’m by,” said Brad. “What we’re to do is too many for me, Chip.”
“Same here,” spoke up Ballard. “I guess there isn’t a thing we can do but just kick our heels and let things drift.”
Clancy, at that moment, came dancing up the bank, grabbed a rough towel, and began sawing it over his shoulders.
“I’ve thought of a scheme, fellows,” he remarked.
“What sort of a scheme?”