“Work your way through school, then. Lots of chaps do it.”
“By George, I sort o’ think it would be a good plan,” said Larry, forgetting for an instant his usual drawl. “Honest—I’m just aching to tumble into football togs.”
“And with twelve feet of Clifton and Burnham any eleven ought to be a winner,” laughed Bob.
Larry was so pleased with the idea that he very nearly forgot the heat and clouds of insects which persisted in buzzing around his head.
All the discomforts, however, which nature held in store for him were forcibly recalled to his mind when the half-breed, with a sullen grunt, commanded them to mount.
The shade did not extend far. Soon, leaving the miniature canyon, they came out upon the yellow plain once more, to see shimmering heat waves between them and a hazy distance. The only living object was a flock of birds, but so far off that none could recognize their species.
Then followed a ride which Larry Burnham never forgot, and which, for the time being, completely effaced from his mind any pleasing thoughts of Freshfield Prep School or football.
At his home near Kingswood, Wisconsin, he had considered himself a pretty good rider. But an occasional jog to town or about the farm was not at all like spending entire days in the saddle. He looked curiously at his companions to see if they seemed to be affected in any way by the ordeal. But all appeared exasperatingly fresh and unconcerned.
Tom Clifton, indeed, wore such an air of joy that Larry felt positively aggrieved.
“This isn’t quite the thing I bargained for,” he reflected, grimly. “I imagined a nice camp in a patch of woods, an’ a bit of huntin’ an’ fishin’—not a crazy search after a policeman who has done the disappearin’ act. Of course he deserted—the chump! Everything points that way. Gee whiz! Another day o’ this, an’ I think I’ll get out.”