“Stop, I say!” shouted Andy again, making a rush to get between the prospective combatants.
“Now you see what your fooling did,” spoke Frank, in a low voice to his brother. “Why can’t you cut it out?”
“Can’t seem to,” answered the fun-loving lad. “But I won’t let ’em fight. I’ll own up to Chet, and he can take it out of me if he likes.”
“There!” suddenly cried Chet, as he landed a light blow on Bob’s chest “That’ll teach you to dirty up my shoes, fill my pants full of sand and trip me up. There’s another for you!”
He tried to strike the captain’s son again, but Bob, though he was not a fighting lad, was a manly chap, who would stand up for his rights. Suddenly his fist shot forward and landed with no little force on the nose of the dude.
Once more Chet went down, not so gently as before, measuring his length in the sand. When he arose his face was red with anger, and his former immaculate attire was sadly ruffled.
“I—I—I’ll have you all arrested for this!” he yelled. “I’ll make a complaint against you, Bob Trent, and sue you for damages.”
Chet made another rush for the driver of the clam wagon as soon as he could arise, but this time Andy had stepped in between them and blocked the impending blows.
“That’ll do now!” exclaimed the younger Racer lad with more sternness and determination than he usually employed. “It was all my fault. I filled your pants with sand, Chet. I really couldn’t help it, the bottoms were so wide open. But I didn’t push you when you fell the first time. You tripped in that hollow. Now come on, and I’ll buy you two chocolate sodas to square it up. I’ll treat the crowd. Come along, Bob.”
“No, I can’t,” answered Bob. “Got to get along with these clams. I’m late now. But I want to say that I’m sorry I knocked Chet down. I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t struck me first.”