Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record онлайн

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It was a fish dinner the campers had that day, and a good one. Half an hour before the fish was served, they had been swimming up and down the gulch. From the water to the frying pan was a quick shift—and the quicker the shift the better, when it comes to fish.

There were ten Gold Hillers in camp, and the coming of Frank and his chums brought the total number up to a baker’s dozen. The ten from Gold Hill all belonged to the athletic club, and were a splendid lot of fellows. They were hungry, too, for the morning had been full of exercise.

“Pass the spuds, there, Hotch!” “Trying to hog all the canned oleo, Ming?” “A little more of the planked shad, if you please!” “Where’s my fork?” “Confound it, Bleek, the first thing you know the company will find out we didn’t have forks enough to go around, and that we’re using one between us.” “If you can’t be real polite, then for Heaven’s sake be as polite as you can.” “I’ve got a bone in my throat!” wailed Hotchkiss. “Hit him on the back,” said Bleeker; “everybody hit Hotch on the back.”