"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."
"That's right," put in Frank. "I'm sorry it happened."
"So am I," added Andy contritely. But it is doubtful if he would remain sorry long. Already a smile was playing over his face.
"Well, who's coming and have sodas with me?" asked the younger Racer brother, after an awkward pause, during which Bob mounted the seat of his wagon and drove off. "Come on, Chet. I'll have your cane fixed, too. And if you don't like a chocolate soda you can have vanilla."
"I wouldn't drink a soda with you if I never had one!" burst out the dude, as he wiped the sand off his shoes and brushed his light suit. "I'll get square with you for this, too; see if I don't."
"Oh, very well, if you feel that way about it I can't help it," said Andy. "I said I was sorry, and all that sort of thing, but I'm not going to get down on my knees to you. Come along, Frank. Let's go for a sail."
The clam wagon was heading for the street that led up from the beach. Chet had turned away with an injured air, and Andy linked his arm in that of his brother.