THE MAN THE BOX.
“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 by a 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 as the 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 he take 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 tilted backward. 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.