“That smell! On my handkerchief!” fairly roared Chet. “That’s the best perfumery they have at Davidson’s Emporium. I paid fifteen cents a bottle for it. Give me my handkerchief.”
“Fifteen cents a bottle?” cried Andy. “Say, you got badly stuck all right! Fifteen cents! Whew! Get on the other side, where the wind doesn’t blow, please, Chet.”
“Oh, you fellows think you are mighty funny,” sneered the dude. “I’ll get even with you yet. Are you going to pay for shining my shoes, Bob?”
“I—er—” began the captain’s son.
“Sit down and let’s talk it over,” suggested Andy, as he flopped down on the sand. “Have a chair, Chet. You must be tired standing,” he went on.
“What? Sit there with—with my good clothes on?” demanded the dude in accents of horror. “Never!”
“A clam might bite you, of course. I forgot that,” continued the fun-loving Andy. Then, as Chet continued to face Bob, and make demands on him for the price of having his tan shoes polished, the younger Racer lad conceived another scheme.
In accordance with what he thought were the dictates of “fashion,” Chet wore his trousers very much turned up at the bottoms. They formed a sort of “pockets,” and these pockets Andy industriously proceeded to fill with sand. Soon both trouser legs bulged with the white particles.
“Well, are you going to pay me?” demanded Chet of Bob finally.
“I—I didn’t mean to do it, and I haven’t any change to pay you now,” said the captain’s son.