“Where’s the water?”
Merriwell stirred and opened his eyes. He was usually an early riser, but an hour or two had been chopped out of his sleeping schedule during the night by Bleeker. For this reason he wasn’t so prompt in beating Clancy out of bed that morning, as was generally the case.
Clancy had just husked himself out of his pajamas and was standing wrathfully over a washtub—an empty washtub.
“Who’s trying to hold the morning dip out on me?” demanded Clancy, throwing a look of suspicion at Merry.
“How do I know?” asked Merry. “Don’t be so darned ambitious on a Sunday morning. Bottle up and let a fellow sleep.”
With that he knocked the red-headed chap off his balance with a pillow. There was a great racket as Clancy sat down hard in the empty tub.
“No one can do that to me and live,” hissed Clancy, wriggling out of the tub and rushing at his chum.
It was the duty of Woo Sing, Chinese roustabout in the hotel, to fill the tub with cold water. The first lad out of bed took his plunge, and the second one up had to empty and fill the tub for himself. Now Woo Sing, who was allowed an honorarium for his work, had failed in his duty.
While Merry and Clancy were laughing and pounding each other with pillows, a screech from the back yard claimed their attention. The screech was followed bya wild assortment of words in three separate and distinct voices.
“China boy fillee tub, by Klismas!”
“Py shinks, I fill dot tub myselluf, und dot’s all aboudt it.”
“Me, I fill de tub.”
Merry and Clancy stepped away from each other, listened, and then moved toward a window. A look into the back yard at once disclosed the reason why the bath water had not been provided.
The Chinaman evidently had started for the second floor of the hotel with a filled pail, but before he could get into the building he had been waylaid by Fritz Gesundheit and the Mexican, Silva. The Dutchman and the Mexican had each laid hold of the pail, and all three were glaring at each other over the top of it.
Fritz, otherwise Carrots, was out of a job now that the Ophir fellows had come in from Tinaja Wells, and the same was equally true of Silva. Carrying water for the bath had looked like easy money to the Dutchman and the Mexican, and each of them had made up his mind to kick Chinese labor off the job and monopolize the work and the honorarium. Woo Sing, however, was registering objections.
“Lettee go pail!” cried the Chinaman. “No lettee go, my bleakee head! By jim klickets, Melican sons guns no makee fool business allee same China boy!”
“Caramba!” breathed Silva darkly. “De water ees mine for carry. I make insist. Hands off de pail,muy pronto!”
“By Shiminy,” wheezed fat Fritz, “I vas gedding my mad oop like I can’t tell! I take der pail myselluf.”
Then began a savage tussle with the pail of water asthe bone of contention. It proved a mighty unsatisfactory bone to fight over, for as it heaved and jumped under the straining hands and arms, a quart went into the Dutchman’s face and a cupful found its way down the Mexican’s back. This caused little damage, apart from putting a keener edge on the tempers of Fritz and Silva. Ceasing the struggle for the pail, they began giving their attention to each other.
There was a close and animated tangle of heads, arms, and legs—the pail somewhere in the midst. As the massed combatants surged back and forth, they left a trail of water; and their cries, which were wild and continuous, were all awash and filled with strangles and bad words—words on which they choked.
Merriwell and Clancy, at the second-story window, were enjoying the spectacle hugely. It seemed to be reaching a serious phase, however, and they were just thinking of putting a stop to it when the Chinaman’s heels went into the air and the Dutchman and the Mexican fell away from him.
Woo Sing, by some weird mischance, had taken a header. The pail happened to be placed so as to receive him. For half a minute he was emerged to the shoulders in the pail, his sandaled heels kicking the air. It was a mirthful exhibition, and Fritz and Silva enjoyed it.
“Haw, haw, haw!” the Dutchman wheezed. “Vat a funny Chinaman I don’d know! See, vonce, how he kicks his heels mit der air, und keeps his headt der pail in! Iss der vater py der pail? Yah, so hellup me! Vill der Chinaman be trowned? Dere iss not so mooch goot luck!”
“Madre mia!” tittered the Mexican, holding up against the pump while he gasped and chuckled and roared. “Dat ees no Chinaman, dat ees one frog! De frog hetake one dive in de pail, and he make t’ink de pail ees a pond—har, har, har!”
Woo Sing, about as mad a Chinaman as one could find, succeeded at last in getting his feet on the ground. Half strangled, he lifted himself erect. Now that he was right side up, of course the pail was upside down. A flood of water was released and rolled over the Chinaman like a tidal wave. His kimono and baggy breeches were soaked. With a sputtering whoop, he tore the pail from his head and hurled it at Fritz.
The pail caught the Dutchman in the pit of the stomach, doubling him up with something besides laughter. Having attended to Fritz, the water-soaked Celestial rushed at Silva.
The Mexican, in jumping away from the pump, hit the handle with his knee. It flew up and struck him a terrific blow under the chin. While Silva was thus more or less demoralized, the Chinaman fell on him and bore him down.
Fritz, who had by a valiant effort succeeded in getting his breath back, was “seeing red.” Reckless of consequences, he picked up a club and started to even up matters with Woo Sing. The mêlée was becoming too serious to be tolerated any further. Up to that point Merry and Clancy had enjoyed the performance in the back yard immensely.
Clancy leaned out of the window to shout a yell of warning. Merry, however, pulled him back, a mirthful glimmer in his dark eyes.
“I’ll stop it, Clan,” he whispered. “Watch.”
Merriwell was past master in the art of “throwing his voice.” Ventriloquism had afforded him a good deal of fun, and had occasionally been of decided benefit to him and his affairs.
Near the kitchen woodpile was a large box. It was empty and Pophagan, proprietor of the hotel, had thrown it into the backyard to be broken to pieces and used for kindling. The box was still intact, however.
“Stop that!” boomed a deep voice, apparently coming from inside the box. “No more of that rough-house or I’ll put you all in jail. D’you hear?”
The voice was heard, plainly enough. The effect was startling.
“Ach, du lieber!” sputtered Fritz, all his anger fading from him in a flash. “Who iss dot? Iss it some boliceman?”
“Plaps him p’leeceman,” whimpered Woo Sing, dashing the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “My no likee go to jail! Whoosh!”
“Dat ees muy malo!” chattered Silva, holding his chin and showing the whites of his eyes. “How you s’pose man get in de box, huh?”
“Dot iss a plame’ funny blace for a man, py shinks!” commented the wondering Fritz.
“Get me out of here quick,” came the voice from the box, “or I’ll nab the lot of you!”
“Caramba!” gulped the Mexican. “Me, I no like to fool wit’ de box.”
“Mebbyso Melican man gettee stuck in box,” suggested Woo Sing. “Him wantee out. My no likee one piecee pidgin, too. We helpee him, huh?”
The object for which Merriwell had been striving had been accomplished. Peace reigned among the three in the back yard. It was a sloppy sort of peace, for all of them were more or less drenched, but still it was peace for all that.
A community of interest had drawn the three together.Just now, to their disordered fancies, the possibility of a term in jail loomed very large.
“I t’ink ve pedder hellup der feller oudt oof der pox,” said Fritz, after a period of harrowing reflection. “Silfa, you go fairst and I vill precede mit der chink.”
“You yourself go first to de box!” implored Woo Sing.
“Please, fat Melican man!” implored Woo Sing.
“Help, help!” came the voice, in a roar. “I’m listening to what you fellows say out there. When I get out, you can bet I’ll take care of the ones who don’t come to my rescue.”
As soon as this statement had had time to sink in, all three of those who were standing at a distance from the box rushed as one man to get near it and to release the supposed person inside.
Clancy was red in the face with suppressed mirth. Merry, leaning against the window casing, was enjoying the situation to the utmost.
“Now for some fun,” murmured Clancy, “when they turn the box over and find there’s no one inside.”
“This is pretty rich, and no mistake,” chuckled Merry. “They’re all going to lay hold of the box and lift it. They——”
The words died on his lips. Just then something happened which caused a chilly feeling to race along his spine, and Clancy’s rapture vanished on the instant.
Before a hand could be laid on the box, it began to lift—apparently of its own accord. Fritz, Silva, and Woo Sing stepped back. They, of course, were in no wise startled for they were expecting to find some one under the big packing case. But Merry and Clancy could only gasp and stare downward with wide eyes.
The box, by a force exerted from within, was tiltedbackward. A young fellow showed himself, unkempt and his clothes in disorder from several hours in such cramped quarters.
He was not a tramp, that was evident. His clothing was of excellent quality and fitted him well. Surprise followed surprise for Merry, for he presently noticed that the youth’s hair was as black as a raven’s wing, his eyes a faded blue, and his skin a waxlike and unhealthy white!
Merriwell, astounded beyond words, leaned against the side of the window and continued to peer blankly outward and downward at the odd group in the rear of the hotel.
The man who had been under the box had his coat over his arm and his sleeves rolled to the elbow. With a snarling, angry cry he leaped past the Mexican, the Dutchman and the Chinaman, and sprinted at a tremendous clip to get out of the way.
“Catch that fellow!” cried Merriwell, finally waking up. “Come on, Clan!”
The red-headed chap came out of his daze in time to plunge for a dressing gown and a pair of slippers, and then to dart into the hall and away after his chum.