“That’s a conundrum, Carrots. How many fellows are looking for that treasure of yours, eh?”
“No vone but me und you, Pallard.”
“Wait here for a couple of shakes, Fritz. I want to explore.”
Ballard crept to the place where the mysterious figure had been at work, groped under a stone, and pulled forth a package wrapped in something white. Lighting a match, he examined his find. Fritz could hear him muttering excitedly as the match dropped from his fingers.
“Vat it iss, Pallard?” quavered Fritz.
“I’ve had enough treasure hunting for one night,” answered Ballard, in a strange voice. “I’m going back to the live stock, Fritz. Come on!”
Fritz protested, but Ballard stood firm. Fritz would not continue on without company, and so they returned to the camp—Ballard with the white packet snugly stowed in his pocket.
[CHAPTER IX.]
THE RACE.
Most of the forenoon, every day except Sunday, Merriwell, Clancy, and Ballard had to give up to the “grind.” Professor Phineas Borrodaile rigidly insisted on certain hours for study and recitation, and would not temper his discipline even on the day that notable race was to be run between Lenning and Darrel.