"Me either," added Frank, entering into the joke. "It sure is an awful smell. Whew!"
"I—I don't smell anything," said Chet, blankly.
"Maybe it's your handkerchief," went on Andy. "Give us a whiff," and before the dude could stop him the younger Racer boy had snatched it from his pocket. "Whew! Yes, this is it!" he cried, holding his nose as he handed the gaudy linen back. "How did it happen, Chet? Did you drop it somewhere? It's awful!" and he pretended to stagger back. "Better have it disinfected."
"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.