ned 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 snatched 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