"You're a joke yourself," murmured Frank. "It wasn't Bob's fault that the clam fell on you, Chet," he added in louder tones.

"Why not, I'd like to know?"

"Because you are so brilliant in those togs that you blinded his eyes, and he couldn't see to shovel straight; eh, Bob?"

"I--I guess that's it. I didn't mean to," murmured Bob.

"Well, you'll pay for having my shoes shined just the same," snapped Chet, as he restored his handkerchief to his pocket with a grand flourish.

"Whew! What's that smell?" cried Andy, pretending to be horrified. "I didn't know you could smell the fish fertilizer factory when the wind was in this direction."

"Me either," added Frank, entering into the joke. "It sure is an awful smell. Whew!"

"I--I don't smell anything," said Chet, blankly.

"Maybe it's your handkerchief," went on Andy. "Give us a whiff," and before the dude could stop him the younger Racer boy had s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his pocket. "Whew! Yes, this is it!" he cried, holding his nose as he handed the gaudy linen back. "How did it happen, Chet? Did you drop it somewhere? It's awful!" and he pretended to stagger back.

"Better have it disinfected."

"That smell! On my handkerchief!" fairly roared Chet. "That's the best perfumery they have at Davidson's Emporium. I paid fifteen cents a bottle for it. Give me my handkerchief."

"Fifteen cents a bottle?" cried Andy. "Say, you got badly stuck all right! Fifteen cents! Whew! Get on the other side, where the wind doesn't blow, please, Chet."

"Oh, you fellows think you are mighty funny," sneered the dude. "I'll get even with you yet. Are you going to pay for shining my shoes, Bob?"

"I--er--" began the captain's son.

"Sit down and let's talk it over," suggested Andy, as he flopped down on the sand. "Have a chair, Chet. You must be tired standing," he went on.

"What? Sit there with--with my good clothes on?" demanded the dude in accents of horror. "Never!"

"A clam might bite you, of course. I forgot that," continued the fun-loving Andy. Then, as Chet continued to face Bob, and make demands on him for the price of having his tan shoes polished, the younger Racer lad conceived another scheme.

In accordance with what he thought were the dictates of "fashion" Chet wore his trousers very much turned up at the bottoms. They formed a sort of "pockets," and these pockets Andy industriously proceeded to fill with sand. Soon both trouser legs bulged with the white particles.

"Well, are you going to pay me?" demanded Chet of Bob finally.

"I--I didn't mean to do it, and I haven't any change to pay you now,"

said the captain's son.

"Pay him in clams," suggested Frank.

"No, I want the money," insisted the dude. He took a step after Bob, who walked around to get on the seat of the wagon. At his first movement Chet was made aware of the sand in the bottoms of his trousers.

The dude looked down, half frightened. Then he made a leap forward.

The sand was scattered all about, a good portion of it going into the low shoes Chet wore. This filled them so that they were hard to walk in, and the next moment the stylishly dressed youth lurched, stepped into a hollow, and fell flat on the sand, his slender cane breaking off short at the handle as it caught between his legs.

"Come here and I'll pick you up!" shouted Andy, who had scrambled away as he saw Chet start out.

"You--you--who did this? Who pushed me?" stammered Chet, as he got up spluttering, for some sand had gotten in his mouth. "I'll have revenge for this--on some one! Who knocked me down?"

"It was the strong perfumery on your handkerchief," suggested Andy.

"It went to your head, Chet."

"It was you, Bob Trent; you did it!" yelled the dude, making a rush for the captain's son. "I'll give you a thrashing for this!"

CHAPTER VII

A LIVELY CARGO

"Hold on there, Chet!" cried Andy, as he saw Bob about to suffer for the trick he himself had played. The dude had hauled back his fist to strike the captain's son, who put himself in a position of defense.

"You can't stop me!" yelled Chet, making rapid motions with his fists.

Bob Trent shrank back.

"Stop, I say!" shouted Andy again, making a rush to get between the prospective combatants.

"Now you see what your fooling did," spoke Frank, in a low voice to his brother. "Why can't you cut it out?"

"Can't seem to," answered the fun-loving lad. "But I won't let 'em fight. I'll own up to Chet, and he can take it out of me if he likes."

"There!" suddenly cried Chet, as he landed a light blow on Bob's chest.

"That'll teach you to dirty up my shoes, fill my pants full of sand and trip me up. There's another for you!"

He tried to strike the captain's son again, but Bob, though he was not a fighting lad, was a manly chap, who would stand up for his rights.

Suddenly his fist shot forward and landed with no little force on the nose of the dude.

Once more Chet went down, not so gently as before, measuring his length in the sand. When he arose his face was red with anger, and his former immaculate attire was sadly ruffled.

"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."