“What is?”
“Why, that little red-covered book.” Willie seemed almost on the point of blubbering. “I had it in this left-hand pocket. Look around, you chaps.”
The chaps did as requested, but, naturally, without result. The little red-covered book was lying, a shapeless mass, fully a half mile away.
“Oh, if I couldn’t paste old Doctor Clifton for this!” roared Willie, highly exasperated. “It’s all his fault.”
“You’re a nice one, to talk like that, after the way we dived right in among the longhorns to help you,” cried Tom.
“But I want my book,” wailed Willie. “It was such a dandy. Ginger—if I don’t get square with you for this, Mr. First-aid-to-the-injured!”
“Oh, you make me worse and worse tired!” scoffed Tom.
“Come on right now—if you aren’t afraid.” Willie, with a flourish of his fists, began to dance around. “I’ll make you more tired,” he howled. “I’ll punch you for every page in that book.”
“Quick, fellows—get the arbitration board to working,” laughed Cranny. “Let’s have the treaty signed.”
And at that instant Willie Sloan aimed a right hand uppercut at Tom’s chin, which, as the tall lad straightened up, fell short.