“Diablo!” snapped Silva. “Dat Dutchmans get de ball from de camp—I no get him. Take dat dinero out of me, and I quit muy pronto.”
“You peen some pad eggs,” wheezed Fritz, “und I preak your face in!”
“Yah, yah, yah!” taunted the Mexican. “You not able to break de face in.”
Ballard and Darrel, enjoying the situation more than they cared to show before Fritz and Silva, clung to the two would-be sluggers and held them apart. Merriwell, on his knees at the rim of the cañon, turned to look around at the Dutch boy and the Mexican.
“Cut out this fighting,” said he sternly. “The one that strikes the first blow will have the five dollars taken out of his pay. Keep hands off of each other and neither of you will have to pay a cent if the ball is lost. Understand that, Fritz? And you, Silva?”
The warlike ardor of the two was appreciably lessened. Fritz ceased his floundering struggles to get at the Mexican, and Silva suddenly grew docile. Merry’s threat was a master stroke.
“Let them go, fellows,” went on Merry, smothering a desire to laugh. “You and Silva go back to camp, Fritz, and if you’re not peaceable, just remember that your pay will be docked. And hereafter leave our athletic equipment alone. I don’t object to your doing a little training—in fact, I think it would be a good thing for each of you—but when you go at it again you’d better have an instructor. I’ll be glad to put you through a course of sprouts any time you feel the need of it.”
Without indulging in any remarks, Fritz and Silva started off in the direction of the mesa and the camp. They did not travel in company but straggled along at a distance from each other. As soon as they were out of sight, Ballard turned around with a laugh.
“That five-dollar play of yours, Chip,” said he, “was a winner. Fritz is a tightwad, and Silva pinches a dollar till he makes the eagle squeal. They’ll be peaceable for a while, take it from me.”
“How about the ball, Chip?” inquired Darrel, hastening to join the two on the edge of the cañon wall.