WOO SING AND THE PIG.
“Suffering snakes!” exclaimed Barzy Blunt, coming to a halt in the
trail, “what in blazes is that, fellows?”
“It might be a steam calliope breaking out in high C,” grinned Owen
Clancy, “only this part of Arizona runs more to cantaloupes than
calliopes, so----”
Billy Ballard groaned heavily.
“Pa-ro-no-masia,” he said, clearly and distinctly. “Get that?”
“No,” said young Merriwell decidedly, “I don’t get it, Pink, and I don’t
want to. Sounds worse than the measles.”
“I reckon I’ve had it,” remarked Blunt seriously. “If it’s catching, I
know I have. When I was a kid I made it a rule to corral everything from
mumps to meningitis. Can you have it twice?”
“I’m vaccinated,” said Clancy, “so I guess it wouldn’t be fatal even if
I did catch it. What are the symptoms, Pink?”
“In your case, Red,” Ballard explained, “the symptoms are ‘cantaloupe’
and ‘calliope.’ Professor Phineas Borrodaile, who is long on
polysyllables, explained the term to me.”
“Well, come across. What sort of a silly-bull is this
pa-ra-what-d’you-call-it?”
“Slay him!” whispered Ballard weakly. “There are more symptoms.”
Feigning wrath, Clancy bristled up to Ballard.
“I’ll be slaying you, Pink,” he growled, “if you don’t tell me what I’ve
got so I can get rid of it.”
“Keep your distance, Clancy!” ordered Ballard. “I can see another pun in
your eye. If you make it, somebody will have to hold me or I’ll give you
a jab with my powerful right.”
“That would be a pun-jab, and---- Ouch! Quit it, Chip! Let go!”
Merry had grabbed his red-headed chum with both hands.
“Will you let up of your own accord, Clan,” hissed Merry, “or have I got
to strangle you?”
“I’ll quiet down if Pink will kindly explain what he means,” said
Clancy.
“A fellow who puns has pa-ra-no-masia,” explained Ballard.
“Oh, that’s it!” murmured Clancy, pretending a great relief. “A fellow
who puns ought to be punished, I suppose.”
“He ought to be punched,” declared Ballard; “and right here----”
But, just at this point, the sound which Blunt had first heard, and
which had aroused his curiosity, came suddenly closer. It was loud, and
shrill, and ear-splitting. Nor was it hard to determine the cause of it,
now that it was so close.
“A pig, by thunder!” exclaimed the cowboy.
The words were still on his lips as a small and highly excited porker
came plunging wildly into view around a turn in the trail. There was a
rope tied to one of the pig’s hind legs, and attached to the end of the
rope was a Chinaman.
The Chinaman’s silk kimono was split up the back, one of the sleeves had
been torn away, and what remained of the garment was covered with dust
and grime. His flapping trousers were also considerably out of repair,
and one of his sandals was gone.
“Why,” cried Merry, “it’s Woo Sing!”
Woo Sing was the Chinese roustabout at the Ophir House, the hotel at
which Merry and his chums had put up during the whole of their stay in
Ophir, Arizona. Ordinarily, Woo Sing was very bland and peaceable, but
now it was evident that his Oriental temper was getting the best of him.
“Whoosh!” he shouted, on catching sight of the boys. “One piecee pig
makee heap tlouble. Woo Sing no likee pig, by Klismus! Somebody give Woo
Sing club, by gee clickets, him makee pig bologna sausage chop-chop.”
The pig, for the moment, had stopped struggling and stopped squealing.
With his round, wicked little eyes he was surveying the four lads in the
trail.
“Where’d you get the porker, Sing?” inquired Ballard.
“Pophagan he wantee. Him sendee Woo Sing to gettee. I pay fi’ dol’ fo’
pig, and he makee fitty dol’ damage with tlouble. Pophagan no sendee
Sing fo’ pig ally mo’. Him tly sendee, Sing quit job, by glacious!”
All the boys studied the angry Chinaman for a moment, and then the humor
of the situation broke over them, and they began to laugh.
“You makee laugh, huh?” chattered the Chinaman wrathfully. “You ketchee
heap plenty fun flom China boy’s tlouble! By jim’ Klismus, I been so mad
I likee make fight. Mebbyso, you takee pig with stling bymby flom one
place to some othel place. Pig makee tlouble fo’ you, then China boy
laugh allee same Sam Hill. Now China boy no can laugh. Whoosh! Giddap,”
he added, shaking the rope in an attempt to make the pig resume the
journey townward.
The pig, however, seemed to have ideas of his own on the subject of
starting. Planted firmly in the trail, he merely let out a protesting
squeal every time Woo Sing jerked the rope.
“He makee squeal, no makee move!” cried the exasperated Chinaman.
“He’s balky, Sing,” observed Blunt, tipping a humorous wink at the other
lads. “You’ve got the rope around the wrong end of that pig. If you had
it hitched in front, you know, you could pull him along.”
“In flont?” cried the Chinaman, in horror. “Me no gettee in flont of pig
fo’ hunnerd dol’. It plenty bad to tlavel behind, where China boy makee
watch pig do his devil tlicks. P’laps pig makee move if China boy givee
kick.”
With that, Sing hauled off with the foot which still wore a sandal. In
less than a second the Chinaman’s foot and the pig had a rear-end
collision. The pig let out an angry squeal, and started--but not in the
right direction. Instead of striking out along the trail on the way to
Ophir, the pig began running circles around Sing.
In just two rounds the Chinaman’s feet were neatly lashed together by
two coils of rope. Another round, and the pull on the rope jerked the
bound feet out from under their owner, and he sat down in the trail with
more haste than grace.
By that time, the pig evidently came to the conclusion that he had done
enough circling, and started off on the straightaway. He did not head
toward Ophir, however, but away from the town and in the direction of
Bitter Root Cañon.
For possibly two yards he dragged the helpless Chinaman after him, then
the Chinaman’s weight, pulling against the loop around the pig’s leg,
caused the rope to slip off, and the unmanageable little porker found
himself free to travel where he pleased.
Frank and his friends had been attempting to do something to relieve the
Chinaman’s distress. Woo Sing was sputtering like a package of
firecrackers, however, and the situation was so funny that the boys had
to laugh in spite of themselves. Their enjoyment interfered with their
efforts to aid, and they had barely surrounded the pig and the Chinaman
when the pig broke loose.
Ballard, as it happened, was right in the pig’s way. Without taking the
trouble to go around Ballard, the pig charged for his legs, and knocked
them out from under him. For about a second Ballard was standing on his
head.
“Me losee fi’ dol’, him gettee ’way!” wailed Woo Sing, untangling
himself from the rope and jumping to his feet. “Whoa, pig! Come, pig;
come, pig!”
The Chinaman was flying at speed after the escaped porker.
“Help ketchee, help ketchee!” he flung over his shoulder, in an
imploring voice, as he raced onward.
“That’s the darndest, most contrary pig I ever saw in my life!” fumed
Ballard.
“He’s not used to chinks,” laughed Blunt, “and that’s all the trouble.”
“Pink tried to hog all the Chinaman’s trouble,” said Clancy, “and now
he’s sore because he got just a little of it.”
“Gee!” exclaimed young Merriwell; “the pig’s going like a streak, and
he’ll be in the cañon in about two minutes. No chance of overhauling him
so long as he sets a pace like that.”
The trail Frank and his friends were traveling was the one leading from
town to the clubhouse and athletic field of the Ophir Athletic Club.
This was also the main trail to Gold Hill; and, at the point where the
clubhouse road branched away, the pig had exercised considerable
discrimination by keeping right on toward Gold Hill.
The frantic Woo Sing was leading the pursuit. His tattered garments were
fluttering and snapping around him in the wind of his flight, and his
long queue was standing straight out behind. The pig was a mere flurry
of dust in the distance.
At the place where the trail forked to lead to the clubhouse, Frank drew
to a halt.
“We can’t all of us go on and help Sing, fellows,” said he. “There’s
work for us at the golf links, and we can’t waste time getting there.
Ballard, you and Blunt go on and help recapture the pig. Clan and I will
hunt up Mr. Bradlaugh and Colonel Hawtrey and see what we can do for
Lenning.”
“There’s your chance, Pink,” laughed Clancy. “Go ahead and stir
yourself. But I’d advise you not to get too much in the pig’s way. If he
makes a dead set at you, just swing around, get on his back, and ride.
Do that, and it won’t be long before you tire him out and get him so
he’ll eat out of your hand.”
“You go to blazes!” growled Ballard. “If you know so much about catching
runaway pigs, maybe you’d better go with Blunt and let me trail along
with Chip.”
“Come on, Bal,” cried the cowboy, and started off, running awkwardly in
his feet-pinching, high-heeled boots.
Without waiting for further talk, Ballard took after Blunt. Merry and
Clancy watched until the little cloud of dust, representing the pig, had
crossed the rim of the cañon and vanished down the steep slope; then,
turning, they set their faces toward the clubhouse.
“That was more fun than a box of monkeys, Chip,” chuckled Clancy. “I
wish I could be around to see how the chase comes out.”
“They’ll catch the pig, of course,” laughed Merriwell. “It means five
dollars to Sing, and he’ll never give up until he lays the porker by the
heels. Ballard and Blunt couldn’t very well give up the chase and leave
the Chinaman to go it alone.”
For a few moments the two chums walked onward, chuckling and snickering
over recent events; then, as they drew near the clubhouse, Merry’s face
suddenly straightened.
“Now, Clan,” said he, “we’re right up to one of the hardest jobs we ever
tackled. Let’s get serious.”