Clancy leaned out of the window to shout a yell of warning. Merry, however, pulled him back, a mirthful glimmer in his dark eyes.
“I’ll stop it, Clan,” he whispered. “Watch.”
Merriwell was past master in the art of “throwing his voice.” Ventriloquism had afforded him a good deal of fun, and had occasionally been of decided benefit to him and his affairs.
Near the kitchen woodpile was a large box. It was empty and Pophagan, proprietor of the hotel, had thrown it into the backyard to be broken to pieces and used for kindling. The box was still intact, however.
“Stop that!” boomed a deep voice, apparently coming from inside the box. “No more of that rough-house or I’ll put you all in jail. D’you hear?”
The voice was heard, plainly enough. The effect was startling.
“Ach, du lieber!” sputtered Fritz, all his anger fading from him in a flash. “Who iss dot? Iss it some boliceman?”
“Plaps him p’leeceman,” whimpered Woo Sing, dashing the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “My no likee go to jail! Whoosh!”
“Dat ees muy malo!” chattered Silva, holding his chin and showing the whites of his eyes. “How you s’pose man get in de box, huh?”
“Dot iss a plame’ funny blace for a man, py shinks!” commented the wondering Fritz.