“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.”
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“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
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 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
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 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 g............