United States or South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"Of course!" retorted Ned. "That's Chunky's first idea something to eat. I've been waiting for him to say something like that." The boys were at Jerry's house, talking over various matters. The auto was kept in an unused barn back of his home, but, since the advent of the motor boat, had not seen much service, though occasionally the boys went out in it.
The red, bony fingers were closing upon Tad Butler's right shoulder, when all at once something happened. The cringing fat boy rose. The right hand that had been clinging to the cantle was launched out. His body, thrown forward at the same time, lent the blow added force. Chunky's fist came into violent contact with the Indian's jaw. Mr.
Tad recalled that he had discovered thousands of insects crawling over the burlap sack when he came out in the morning. The lad's mind began to unravel the mystery. He thought he understood Chunky's references now, but Tad only smiled. He made no effort to explain, but instead, changed the subject. "Do we start, or do we remain here, Professor?" he asked. "It shall be as you boys wish.
Chunky's shirt was entirely missing, his skin red from the heat, ridged with scratches where he had come in violent contact with cactus plants, his hair tousled and gray with dust. "Well you are a sight," grinned Tad. "You wouldn't take a prize at a baby show yourself," retorted Stacy, spicily.
I'll see if I can do them again." Letting his horse drop back a few rods behind the others, Chunky went over his list of accomplishments in the imitation line, trying each one cautiously, keeping a watchful eye on the ears of the pony. All at once the eyes of the fat boy lighted up. Something struck him as funny. He laughed aloud. "Chunky's got them again," chuckled Ned Rector.
That broncho's back was humped up like a mad cat's all the way around. 'Course Tad can ride. Wish I could ride half as well as he does. You needn't be afraid, Walter." Thus reassured by Chunky's praise, Walter dropped the bridle rein over the neck of his handsome new pony, and slid slowly to the ground. "All right, Tad. Jump up! But don't hold him too tightly.
Do you think we had better start to-night, Mr. Kringle?" "No. There is no necessity." "What am I going to do for a pony?" asked Chunky. "You can ride one of mine. I always take two when on a long journey," replied the guide. Chunky's first act after reaching camp, was to provide himself with a shirt.
He scooped the fat boy up by the collar and rode madly for the protection of the rocks, Chunky's heels dragging on the ground. The others rode madly after them, while the shots were still being fired at them. It was an exciting moment. No one knew what the shooting meant, nor did they know whether Stacy really had been hit or not. There was no time to stop to reason the matter out.
It was on the second day out, after they had been skirmishing for water in every direction, that the lads heard the familiar yell from Chunky. "There goes the trouble maker," cried Ned. "He's at it again." The guide bounded up, starting on a run for the spot where Chunky's wail had been heard. The others were not far behind.
"That settles it," said Ned ruefully. "I never had an appetite yet that it didn't meet with the disappointment of it's young life. Now, who do you suppose took that food!" "Perhaps it was another of Chunky's pussy cats," laughed Walter. "Don't we get anything to eat!" asked Stacy in a plaintive voice, glancing from one to the other of his companions. "Yes, of course.
Word Of The Day