The High School Boys Omnibus

by

H. Irving Hancock

BOOK INDEX

Book 1

The High School Freshmen

Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports

Book 2

The High School Pitcher

Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond

Book 3

The High School Left End

Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron

Book 4

The High School Captain of the Team

Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard

THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN

or

Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports

CONTENTS

I. "The High School Sneak"

II. Dick & Co. After the School Board's Scalps

III. Not So Much of a Freshman

IV. Captain of the Hounds

V. The "Muckers" and the "Gentleman"

VI. Fred Offers to Solve the Locker Mystery

VII. Dick's Turn to Get a Jolt

VIII. Only a "Suspended" Freshman Now

IX. Laura Bentley is Wide Awake

X. Tip Scammon Talks—But Not Enough

XI. The Welcome With a Big "W"

XII. Dick & Co. Give Football a New Boost

XIII. "The Oath of the Dub"

XIV. On the Gridiron with Cobber Second

XV. Gridley Faces Disaster

XVI. The Fake Kick, Two Ways

XVII. Dick's "Find" Makes Gridley Shiver

XVIII. Fred Slides into the Freeze

XIX. Dick & Co. Show Some Team Work

XX. Out for That Toboggan

XXI. Thanks Served with Hate

XXII. The Only Freshman at the Senior Ball

XXIII. The Nitroglycerine Mystery Speaks Up

XXIV. The Capture of the Bank Robbers

XXV. Conclusion

I. THE HIGH SCHOOL SNEAK

"I say you did!" cried Fred Ripley, hotly. Dick Prescott's cheeks turned a dull red as he replied, quietly, after swallowing a choky feeling in his throat:

"I have already told you that I did not do it."

"Then who did do the contemptible thing?" insisted Ripley, sneeringly.

Fully forty boys, representing all the different classes at the Gridley High School, stood looking on at this altercation in the school grounds. Half a dozen of the girls, too, hovered in the background, interested, or curious, though not venturing too close to what might turn out to be a fight in hot blood.

"If I knew," rejoined Dick, in that same quiet voice, in which one older in the world's ways might have detected the danger-signal, "I wouldn't tell you."

"Bah!" jeered Fred Ripley, hotly.

"Perhaps you mean that you don't believe me?" said Prescott inquiringly.

"I don't!" laughed Ripley, shortly, bitterly.

"Oh!"

A world of meaning surged up in that exclamation. It was as though bright, energetic, honest Dick Prescott had been struck a blow that he could not resent. This, indeed, was the fact.

"See here, Ripley——" burst, indignantly, from Dick Prescott's lips, as his face went white and then glowed a deeper red than before.

"Well, kid?" sneered Ripley.

"If I didn't have a hand—the right hand, at that—that is too crippled, today, I'd pound your words down your mouth."

"Oh, your hand?" retorted Ripley, confidently. "The yarn about that hand is another lie."

Dick's injured right hand came out of the jacket pocket in which it had rested. With his left hand he flung down his cap.

"I'll fight—you—anyway!" Prescott announced, slowly.

There were a few faint cheers, though some of the older High School boys looked serious. Fair play was an honored tradition in Gridley.

Ripley, however, had thrown down his cap at once, hurling his strapped-up school books aside at the same time.

"Wait a moment," commanded Frank Thompson, stepping forward. He was a member of the first class, a member of the school eleven, and a husky young fellow who could enforce his opinions at need.

"Get back, Thomp," retorted Ripley. "The cub wants to fight, and he's got to."

"Not if he has an injured hand," retorted Frank, quickly.

"He hasn't," jeered Ripley. "And he's got so fight, if he has four lame hands."

"He can fight, then, yes," agreed Thompson. "But remember, Fred, it's allowable, when a fellow's crippled, to fight by substitute."

"Substitute?" asked Fred, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes; I'll take his place, if Prescott will let me," volunteered Frank Thompson, coolly.

"You? I guess not," snorted Ripley. "I won't stand for that. I'm a third classman, and you're a first classman. You're half as big again as I am, and——"

"The odds wouldn't be as bad as you're proposing to take out of this poor little freshman with the crippled hand," insisted Thompson. "So get ready to meet me. I'll allow one of my hands to be tied, if you want."

Yet even this proposition couldn't be made alluring to Fred Ripley. He knew Thompson's mettle and strength too well for that.

Dan Dalzell, another freshman, had been standing back, keeping quiet as long as he could.

"See here," proposed Dan, stepping forward, "isn't a freshman allowed to say something when his friend is insulted?"

"Go ahead," nodded Thompson, who knew Dan to be one of young Prescott's close friends.

"Dick isn't in shape to fight, and I know it," continued Dan Dalzell, hotly. "But Ripley wants something easy, like a freshman, so he can have me!"

"And me," cried Tom Reade, also leaping forward.

"He can have one with me, too," offered Harry Hazelton.

"Same here," added Greg Holmes and Dave Darrin.

All five of the speakers were freshmen, and close chums of Dick Prescott's.

"Say, what do you think I want—to fight a whole pack?" demanded Ripley, hoarsely.

"Oh, you don't have to fight us all at once," retorted Dave Darrin. "But you've insulted our friend, and you've taken a sneaking advantage of him at a time when you knew he couldn't handle anyone as big as you are. So, Ripley, you're answerable to Prescott's friends. I'll tell you what you can do. There are five of us. You can take any one of us that you prefer for the first bout. When you've thrashed him, you can call for the next, and so on. But you've got to go through the five of us in turn. If you don't, I'll call you a coward from now on. You're bigger than any of us."

"See here, Cub Darrin," raged Ripley, starting forward, his face aflame, "I don't allow any freshman to talk that way to me. I won't fight you, but I'll chastise you, and you can protect yourself if you know how."

He made a bound forward, intent on hitting Darrin, who stood his ground unflinchingly. But Thompson seized the third classman by the shoulder and shoved him back.

"Now, stop this, Ripley, and you freshmen, cut it out, too," warned the athletic first classman. "This is descending to a low level. We don't want a lot of bickering or mouth-fighting, and we don't intend to have anything but fair play, either."

"As this is largely my affair," broke in Dick Prescott, who had had time to cool down a bit, "let me have a chance to make an offer."

"Go ahead," nodded Thompson.

"Then," proposed Dick, "since you won't let me fight today, why can't this meeting hold over until my hand is in shape? Then I'll agree to give Ripley all he wants."

"That's the only sensible thing I've heard said in five minutes," declared Frank Thompson, looking about him at other upper classmen. "Is it the general opinion that the fight hold over for a few days, or, say, a fortnight?"

"Yes," came back an eager, approving chorus.

"Then so be it," proclaimed Frank. "And now, remember, Ripley, this fight is not to be pulled off until the school agrees to it. If you pick any trouble with Prescott until you get the word, or if you try to find any excuse for hitting him while his hand's out of shape, then you'll answer to the school for your conduct. You know what that means, don't you?"

"Humph!" snorted Fred Ripley. "All this fuss about the High School sneak!"

Again Dick started forward, but Thompson caught him firmly.

"Hold on, freshie!" advised the older boy. "Save it up. Bottle it. You can have all the more fun out of Ripley when your hand is in shape."

"His hand is in as good shape as it ever was," retorted Ripley, scornfully. "And he lies when he says he didn't do this."

Ripley swung, so as to display the tail of a short topcoat that was one of his treasures. The garment was fashionably made and of the best material, for Ripley's father was a wealthy lawyer in Gridley, and the young Ripley hopeful had all the most costly things a boy can prize.

Along the tail of the coat some miscreant had daubed a streak of fresh white paint. Ripley had found it there when donning the coat to leave school at one o'clock that day. Fred knew that Dick had been in the coat room after recess, and, as he disliked the freshman, Ripley had accused Dick of the deed.

Having fired his parting shot, Fred turned on his heel, sauntering over to where the fluttering group of girls waited. One of them, Clara Deane, stepped forward to meet him.

"Fred, why do you have anything to do with such a low-down fellow as Prescott?" asked Clara, contemptuously.

"He's the sneak of the school," uttered Fred, harshly; "but I can't let even a sneak streak my coat with paint."

"And he never did such a thing, either!" broke in Laura Bentley, disdainfully. "Fred Ripley, you accused Dick Prescott of playing off a lame hand. I know how his hand became crippled. Dick wanted me to promise not to tell how it happened, but now I'm going to. Wait and you can hear, both of you."

"I don't want to, I'm sure," rejoined Clara, with a toss of her head. "Come along, Fred."

This pair of students walked away together. They always did, after school was out. The Ripleys and the Deanes were neighbors.

The other girls, however, followed Laura, as, with quick, resolute step, she marched over to where the High School boys still lingered.

"Boys," began Laura, "Mr. Prescott has been accused of pretending about a hurt hand. I know how he injured it; and, as he did it——"

"Please don't say any more, Miss Bentley," begged Dick, flushing.

"Yes, I shall," insisted Laura, quietly. "It happened night before last. Dick Prescott didn't want anything said about it, and neither did the police, so——"

"The police?" chipped in several of the High School boys and girls.

"Yes, the police wanted it kept quiet, so they could have a chance to catch the fellow," Laura hastened on. "But they've had time enough, now, to catch the rascal, if they're ever going to. You see, it happened this way: Mother had forty-five dollars on hand that belonged to the church fair fund. So, night before last, she asked me to take it over to Miss Bond, the treasurer. I was going through Clinton Street, in one of the dark spots, when a man jumped out from behind a tree and made a snatch for the purse that I carried in my hand.

"Well, somehow—I don't just know how," Laura continued, "I managed to keep hold of the purse and I screamed, of course. Then some one came running down the street as fast as he could—and Dick Prescott leaped at the rascal. It was a hard fight—a fearful one."

The girl shuddered even then, in the telling, but she continued: "The wretch was twice as big as Dick Prescott. I thought Dick was going to be killed. Twice the fellow broke loose, and started to run, but what do you think Master Dick was up to?"

"What?" chorused the interested audience.

"Master Dick had his mind set on subduing the robber and holding him for the police. So he tried to stop the wretch from getting away. At last, however, the fellow hurled Dick backward, so that he fell. When he got up he was lame. You all may have noticed that Mr. Prescott limped a bit yesterday?"

"Yes; he did," confirmed Frank Thompson.

"And his hand was hurt, too—I know that," insisted Laura. "For he escorted me to Miss Bond's, and then home. When we got there, I asked my father, who is a doctor, to take Dick into the office. Father said, afterwards, that Dick's right wrist was sprained, and his ankle wrenched a bit, too. He said Dick would be doing well to have the full use of his wrist in a week. Then the police came, when my father telephoned for them, and the police didn't want anything said for a while."

"So you, a fourteen-year-old freshie, are going about at night trying to waylay footpads, are you?" demanded Thompson, resting a friendly hand on Dick's shoulder. "But why did you keep so close-mouthed, afterwards?" demanded the first classman.

"Well, for one thing, I guess I was a bit ashamed," confessed Dick, reddening.

"Ashamed of rushing to beauty's aid?" demanded Frank, laughingly.

"Nothing like it," Dick protested, growing redder still. "I was ashamed over having let the footpad get away."

"What? And he twice your size?" gasped Thompson. "Fellows, what do you think of the modest cheek of this freshie! Ashamed because he couldn't bag a full-sized thug!"

"That kid's the mustard!" broke in another first classman, approvingly.

"That's what he is!" came from others.

"Wow! whoop!"

They began crowding about the confused, blushing freshie, pumping his uninjured left hand. Then some one shouted:

"He's all right, from the ground up. He's a Gridley boy! He's only a freshie in years, but he'll get over that. Now, up with Dick Prescott! On your shoulders! Give him the High School yell!"

Before he could even dodge, this High School freshman found himself going up in the air. With all consideration for his injured hand the upper classmen rushed him out of the school grounds, onto the street, holding him aloft in the post of honor. The other boys followed. Even the few girls followed, waving their handkerchiefs, while a lusty roar went up:

"T-E-R-R-O-R-S! Wa-ar! Fam-ine! Pesti-lence! That's us! That's us! G-R-I-D-L-E-Y—H.S. Rah! rah! rah! rah! Gri-idley!"

"What's all that racket back there?" asked Clara Deane, turning at the head of the street. "Why, they're yelling and carrying that odious little Dick Prescott."

"Must be dragging him off to give him a ducking, as he deserves," muttered Fred Ripley, gratingly.

"No, no! It's the school yell, and the girls are waving their handkerchiefs."

"Then they must be canonizing the school sneak," returned Ripley, frowning hard.

"Well, don't wait to see," urged Clara. "We don't care about mixing up too much with such a common crowd as the Gridley H.S. students are."

"Prescott is nothing but a mucker, but he spoiled my coat, and I'll make him smart for it!" uttered Fred, his face burning with sullen rage.

"You'll only smirch yourself, Fred, by having anything more to do with such a fellow," Clara warned him.

"When I'm even with the fellow, I won't have anything more to do with him," snorted Ripley. "But I'll wait, watch and plan for years, if I have to, to take all the conceit and meanness out of that sneak. I'll never quit until I can look at myself in the glass and tell myself that I've paid back the lowest trick ever played on me!"

II. DICK & CO. GO AFTER THE SCHOOL BOARD'S SCALPS

In Gridley High School, sessions began at eight in the morning. School let out for the day at one in the afternoon. The brighter students, who could get most of their lessons in school, and do the rest of the work during the evening, thus had the afternoon for work or fun.

Often, though, it happened that there were parties, or school dances in the evening. Then a portion of the afternoon could be used for study, if need be. Saturdays, of course, were free from study for all but the dullest—and the dullest usually don't bother their heads much about study at any time.

Gridley was not a large place—just an average little American city of some thirty thousand inhabitants. It was a much bigger place than that, though, when it came to the matter of public spirit. Gridley people were proud of their town. They wanted everything there to be of the best. Certainly, the Gridley High School was not surpassed by many in the country. The imposing building cost some two hundred thousand dollars. The equipment of the school was as fine as could be put in a building of that size. Including the principal, there were sixteen teachers, four of them being men.

In all the classes combined, there were some two hundred and forty students, about one hundred of these being girls. Nearly all of the students were divided between the four regular classes. There were always a few there taking a postgraduate, or fifth year of work, for either college or one of the technical schools.

With such a school and such a staff of teachers as it possessed the Gridley standard of scholarship was high. The Gridley diploma was a good one to take to a college or to a "Tech" school.

Yet this fine high school stood well in the bodily branches of training. Gridley's H.S. football eleven had played, in the past four years, forty-nine games with other high school teams, and had lost but two of these games. The Gridley baseball nine had played fifty-four games with other high school teams in the same period, and had met defeat but three times in the four years.

Athletics, at this school, were not overdone, but were carried on with a fine insistence and a dogged determination. Up to date, however, despite the fine work of their boys, the citizens of the town had been somewhat grudging about affording money for training athletic teams. What the boys had won on the fields of sport they had accomplished more without public encouragement than with it.

It was now October. Dick Prescott and his five closest friends were all freshmen. They had been in the school only long enough to become accustomed to the routine of work and study. They were still freshmen, and would be until the close of the school year. As freshmen were rather despised "cubs" Dick and his friends would be daring, indeed should they dare to do anything, in their freshman year, to make them very prominent.

According to a good many Gridley people Dick's father, Eben Prescott, was accounted the best educated man in town. The elder Prescott had taken high honors at college; he had afterwards graduated in law, and, for a while, had tried to build up a practice. Eben Prescott was not lazy, but he was a student, much given to dreaming. He had finally been driven to opening a small bookstore. Here, when not waiting on customers, he could read. Dick's mother had proved the life of the little business. Had it not been for her energy and judgment the pair would have found it difficult to rear even their one child properly. The family lived in five rooms over the bookstore.

From the time he first began to go to school it had been plain that Dick Prescott inherited his mother's energy, plus some of his own. He had been one of the leaders in study, work and mischief, at the Central Grammar School. It was while in the grammar school that a band of boys had been formed who were popularly known as "Dick & Co." Dick was naturally the head. The other members of the company were Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Harry Hazelton, Greg Holmes and Dave Darrin. These were the same now all High School freshmen who had stepped forward and offered to take Dick's place in fighting Fred Ripley.

Dick was now fourteen, and so were all his partners, except Tom Reade, who was a year older. All of Dick's chums were boys belonging to families of average means. This is but another way of saying that, as a usual thing, Dick and all his partners would have been unable to fish up a whole dollar among them all.

Fred Ripley, on the other hand, usually carried considerable money with him. Lawyer Ripley usually allowed Fred much more money than that snobbish young man knew how to make good use of.

Fred and Clara Deane were undoubtedly the best-dressed pair in the High School, and the two best supplied with spending money. There were a few other sons or daughters of well-to-do people in Gridley High School, but the average attendance came from families that were only just about well enough off to be able to maintain their youngsters at higher studies.

Fred Ripley, despite his mean nature, was not wholly without friends in the High School. Some of his pocket money he spent on his closest intimates. Then, too, Fred had rather a shrewd idea as to those on whom it was safe or best to vent his snobbishness.

From the start of the school year, Ripley had picked out young Freshman Prescott as a boy he did not like. Dick's place in the moneyed scale of life was so lowly that Fred did not hesitate about treating the other boy in a disagreeable manner.

A week after the meeting between Fred and Dick the High School atmosphere had suddenly become charged with intense excitement. The school eleven had come out of training, had played almost its last match with the "scrub" team and was now close to the time for its first regular match. Oakdale H.S. was to be the first opponent, and Oakdale was just good enough a team to make the Gridley boys a bit uneasy over the outcome.

"My remarks this morning," announced Dr. Thornton, on opening school on Monday, "are not so much directed at the young ladies. But to the young gentlemen I will say that, when the football season opens, we usually notice a great falling off in the recitation marks. This year I hope will be an exception. It has always been part of my policy to encourage school athletics, but I do not mind telling you that some members of the Board of Education notice that school percentages fall off in October and November. This, I trust, will not be the case this year. If it is I fear that the Board of Education may take some steps that will result in making athletics less of a feature among our young men. I hope that it is not necessary to add anything to this plain appeal to your good judgment, young gentlemen."

It wasn't. Dr. Thornton was a man of so few and direct words that the boys gathered on the male side of the big assembly room looked around at each other in plain dismay.

"That miserable old Board of Education is equal to shutting down on us right in the middle of the season," whispered Frank Thompson to Dent, who sat next him.

"You know the answer?" Dent whispered back.

"What?"

"Give the board no excuse for any such action. Keep up to the academ. grind."

"But how do that and train——"

A general buzz was going around on the boys' side of the room. Several of the girls, too, were whispering in some excitement, for most of the girls were enthusiastic "fans" at all of the High School games.

Whispering, provided it was "necessary" and did not disturb others, was not against the rules. These were no longer school children, but "young gentlemen" and "young ladies," and allowed more freedom than in the lower schools. For a few moments Dr. Thornton tolerated patiently the excited buzz in the big assembly room. Then, at last, he struck a paper-weight against the top of his desk on the platform.

"First period recitations, now," announced the principal.

Clang! At stroke of the bell there was a hurried clutching of books and notebooks. The students filed down the aisles, going quickly to their proper sections, which formed in the hall outside. The tramp of feet resounded through the building, for some recitation rooms were on the first floor, some on the second and some on the third.

Two minutes later there was quiet in the great building. Recitation room doors were closed. One passing through the corridors would have heard only the indistinct murmur of voices from the different rooms. Within five minutes every one of the instructors detected the fact that, though discipline was as good as ever, Dr. Thornton's words had spoiled the morning's recitations. Try as they would, the young men could not fasten their minds on the work on hand. The hint that athletics might be stopped had stung.

Dick & Co. were all sitting in IV. English.

"Mr. Prescott," directed Submaster Morton, "define the principle of suspense, as employed in writing."

Dick started, looked bewildered, then rose.

"It's—it's——" he began.

"A little more rapidly, if you please."

"I studied it last night, sir, but I'm afraid I've clean forgotten all about that principle," Dick confessed. He sat down, red-faced, nor was his discomfiture decreased by hearing some of the occupants of the girls' seats giggle.

"I shall question you about that at the next recitation. Mr. Prescott," nodded the submaster.

"Ye-es, sir. I hope you'll have luck," Dick answered, absently.

"What's that?" rapped out Mr. Morton.

Dick, aroused, was on his feet again, like a flash.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morton," he came out straightforwardly. "That sounded like slang, or disrespect. I beg to assure you, sir, that neither was intended. The truth is——"

"Your mind is busy with other things this morning, I see," smiled the sub-master.

"Ye-es, sir." Dick dropped once more into his seat. Ralph Morton sighed. That very popular young submaster, only three years out of college, was the hugely admired coach who had led the Gridley eleven to victory during the last three seasons. He was as disturbed as anyone could have been over the rumored intention of the Board of Education to take some unpleasant action regarding High School athletics.

It was a terribly unsatisfactory hour in IV. English. Five minutes before the period was up Mr. Morton dejectedly closed the text-book from which he had been questioning, and remarked, tersely:

"At ease!"

Instantly the buzz of whispering broke forth. It was required only that not enough noise be made to disturb the students in adjoining rooms.

Dick, Tom and Dan sat in the front row. Directly behind them were the other three members of the "Co."

"Say," muttered Dan, in a low undertone, "Mr. Morton looks half glum and half savage this morning, like the rest of us."

"Seems to," muttered Tom Reade.

"What do you make of that?" challenged Dan.

"There must be strong foundation for the little hint Dr. Thornton let fall this morning," guessed Dave Darrin.

"And Mr. Morton knows it's a straight tip," added Harry Hazelton, sagely.

"It'll be a confounded shame, if the Board does anything like that," glowed Dick Prescott, indignantly.

"They'll be so many dead ones, if they do," flared Tom Reade, hotly.

"Yes," agreed Dave Darrin. "But the worst about that Board of Education is that, though they are dead ones, they're so very dead that they'll never find it out."

"Won't they, thought" whispered Dan Dalzell, hotly. "Say, I'm inclined to think they will! I——"

"Dan!" whispered Dick, warningly.

"Yep; you've guessed right," grinned Dan. "I am hatching a scheme in my mind. I'm getting up something that will bring even that dummified Board to its senses."

"Then you can achieve the impossible," teased Reade.

"Say, but it's a warm one that's forming this time," whispered Dan, his eyes dancing. "I'll see you fellows at recess. Not a word until then. But you——"

Ting-ling-ling. The bell connecting with the annunciator at the principal's desk was trilling in IV. English, as it was in all the other recitation rooms. IV. English rose, the boys waiting until the girls had passed from the room. A study-hour in the big assembly room followed for Dick & Co. Yet, had anyone watched Dan Dalzell, it would have been found that young man was in the reference room, and reading, or thumbing—of all volumes in the English language—the city directory!

When recess broke, Dick & Co. quickly got together. By twos, Dick and Dave Darrin leading, they marched down through one of the side streets, it being permitted to High School pupils to go outside the yard in the near neighborhood.

Presently Dick halted before a stone wall. He eyed Dan keenly, who had been walking just behind with Harry Hazelton.

"Dan," demanded the leader, "you gave us to understand that your mind is seething again. Is that true?"

"Quite true," Dan averred, solemnly.

"What particular kind of cerebration is oscillating inside of your intelligence?" Dick queried.

"Which?" demanded Dan, suspiciously. "No, I never! I'm not that kind of fellow."

"In plain, freshman English, then, what's your scheme?"

"We'll have to get statistics," announced Dalzell, "before I can come right down to bare facts. When does the Board of Education, otherwise known as the Grannies' Club, meet?"

"Tonight, in the Board Room in the High School building," Dick answered.

"How many members are there?"

"Seven," Dick affirmed.

"That's not too many, then," continued Dan, thoughtfully.

"Not too many?" repeated Dick Prescott. "What do you mean?"

"Why, I've been refreshing my general information about this town by consulting the city directory. From that valuable tome I discovered that there are just nine undertakers in town."

"Now, what on earth are you driving at—or driveling at?" asked Dick Prescott, suspiciously, while the other partners remained wonderingly, eagerly silent.

"Why," pursued Dan, "we can summon seven of the undertakers for our job, and still leave two available for the public service."

Dick sprang up from the stone wall, tightly gripping Dan Dalzell by the coat collar.

"Help me watch this lunatic, fellows," urged Dick, quietly. "He's dangerous. You've heard him! He's plotting assassination!"

"Undertakers don't assassinate anyone, do they?" queried Dan, with an air of mock innocence.

"What are you plotting, then?" insisted Dick.

Dan's face broadened into a very pronounced grin.

"Why, see here, fellows, there seems to be some fire behind Dr. Thornton's smoke that the Board of Education may get excited over low recitation marks, and actually—stop football!" finished Dalzell, in a gasp.

The other five chums snorted. Dan Dalzell was presently able to control his feelings sufficiently to proceed:

"No one but actually dead ones would expect an American institution of the higher learning to exist in these days without football. Hence, if the Grannies' Club—I mean the School Board—are planning to stop football, or even believe that it is possible, then they're sure enough dead ones. Am I right?"

"Right and sane, after all," nodded Dick.

"Therefore," pursued Dan, "if the board members are dead ones, why not go ahead and bury them? Or, at the least, show our kindly interest in that direction. See here, fellows"—here Dan lowered his voice to the faintest sort of whisper, while the other partners gathered close about him—"tonight we fellows can scatter over the town, and drop into different telephone booths where we're not known. We can call up seven different undertakers, convey to them a hint that there's a dead one at the Board Room, and state that the victim of our call is wanted there at once.

"What good would that do?" demanded Dick, after a thoughtful pause.

"Why," proposed Dan Dalzell, "if seven undertakers call, all within five minutes, won't it be a delicate way of conveying the hint that a Board of Education that thinks it can stop football is composed of dead ones? You see, there'll be an undertaker for each member of the Board. Don't you think the idea—the hint—would soak through even those seven dull old heads?"

Tom, Harry and Dave began to chuckle, though they looked puzzled.

"Well, if you ask me," decided Dick, after more thought, "I have just one answer. The scheme is too grisly. Besides, we've nothing against the undertakers that should make us willing to waste their time. Moreover, Dan we're in the High School, and we're expected to be gentlemen. Now, does your scheme strike you as just the prank for a lot of gentlemen."

"Say, don't look the thing over too closely," protested Dan, more soberly, "or you'll find lots of bad holes in the scheme. Yet, somehow, we've got to bring it to the attention of the Board that, if they go against High School football, they're real dead ones."

"I've just an idea we can do that," spoke Dick Prescott, reflectively. "We can rig the scheme over, so as to save seven estimable business men from starting out on fools' errands. And we can drive the lesson home to the Board just as hard—perhaps harder."

At these hopeful words from the chief the partners pricked up their ears, then crowded closer.

"In the first place," began Dick, "Dan's scheme—beg your pardon, old fellow—is clumsy, grisly and likely to come back as a club to hit us over the head. Now, you all know Len Spencer, the 'Morning Blade' reporter. He's a regular 'fan' over the football and baseball teams, and follows them everywhere in the seasons. You also know that Len is a pretty good friend of mine. If I put Len up to a scheme that will furnish him with good 'copy' for two mornings, he'll put it through for me, and be as mum as an oyster."

"How can Len help us in anything?" demanded Dave Darrin, wonderingly.

"Listen!" ordered Dick Prescott, with a twinkle in his eyes.

When Dick & Co. hurried back at the close of recess they felt serene and content. All the partners felt that Dick Prescott, the most fertile boy in ideas at the Central Grammar School, was going to be able to save the day for football. For Dick had propounded a scheme that was sure to work—barring accidents!

That evening the Board of Education met in dull and stately session. These meetings were generally so dull and devoid of real news that the local press was content to get its account from the secretary's minutes. Tonight was no exception in this respect. No reporter was present when Chairman Stone rapped for order. Seven excellent men were these who sat around the long table. Most of them had made their mark in local business, or in the professions. Yet, as it happened, none of these excellent men had ever made a mark in athletics in earlier years. As they appeared to have succeeded excellently in life without football the members of the Board were inclined to reason that football must be a bad thing.

After the session had droned along for three-quarters of an hour, and all routine business had been transacted, Chairman Stone looked about at his fellow Board members.

"Gentlemen," he began, "we have noticed that, during October and November, the High School percentages, especially those of the young men, are prone to fall a bit. There can be but one cause for this—the football craze. There are signs that this stupid athletic folly will take a greater hold than ever, this year, on our High School students. I thought it best to ask Dr. Thornton to caution the students that any such falling-off of percentages this year might make it necessary for us to forbid High School football."

"It was an excellent idea to give such a warning, Mr. Chairman," nodded Mr. Hegler.

"So I thought," replied Chairman Stone, complacently. "Yet, while we have been in session this evening, I have been wondering why it would not be a good plan to promote scholarship at once by summarily forbidding football."

"Even for the balance of this present season?" asked Mr. Chesbritt, ponderously.

"Even for the balance of this season," confirmed Mr. Stone.

There were murmurs of approval. Just at that moment, however, the door opened suddenly, and Reporter Len Spencer, a bright-faced young man of twenty-two, hurried in on tip-toe. Then, suddenly, he halted, looking unutterably astonished.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen," murmured the reporter. "But I did not expect to find you in session."

"And why not, Mr. Spencer?" demanded the chairman, crisply.

"Why, I—er—I—well, to be candid, gentlemen, 'The Blade' had information that some one had died here."

"Died here?" gasped Chairman Stone. "Upon my word that would be a most extraordinary thing to do in the presence of this Board. Where did you get such very remarkable information, young man?"

"It was telephoned to 'The Blade' office," Len Spencer replied.

"By whom?"

"I—I really don't know," replied the young reporter, looking much embarrassed. "I don't believe our editor, Mr. Pollock, does, either. The news came in over the 'phone. Mr. Pollock told me to rush up here and get all the facts."

"The facts," retorted Mr. Stone, dryly, "would be most difficult for the members of this Board to furnish. Indeed, the only fact in which we are interested would be the name of the person who——"

Ting-a-ling-ling! As the telephone bell jangled Chairman Stone drew the desk instrument toward him, holding the receiver to his ear.

"Hullo!" hailed a voice. "Is that the Board of Education's office?"

"It is," confessed Chairman Stone.

"Is our reporter, Spencer, there? If so, I would like to talk with him."

"Yes, he's right here, Mr. Pollock. And from the extraordinary information he has brought us, I think he needs a talking-to. Wait a moment."

Chairman Stone passed the instrument to Len Spencer. The members of the Board felt curiosity enough to leave their seats and gather at the head of the table. They could hear Editor Pollock's voice as it ran on:

"Hullo, Spencer. Say, I've just had another 'phone from that same party. He says that he sent in his information a bit twisted. What he meant to tell us was that there are seven dead ones in the Board of Education who know so little about public spirit and pride in our boys that they are even considering the idea of forbidding High School football."

"Oh, that's it, eh?" asked Spencer, solemnly. "Seven dead ones?"

"Yes; of course you've already discovered that there's no real tragedy up at the Board, unless they're actually planning some move against football."

The seven members of the School Board looked at one another blankly, wonderingly.

"Who sent you that message over the 'phone?" questioned the reporter.

The seven Board members pricked up their ears still more keenly.

"I don't know," came Editor Pollock's voice. "But I suspect it came from the Business Men's Club. That's a wide-awake and progressive crowd, you know, and full of local pride, even in our High School boys. But, Spencer, I'm in just a bit of a fix. I had already run out six lines on the bulletin board announcing that a sudden death had taken place in the School Board meeting. Now, I've got to run out another bulletin and explain. Spencer, you'd better come back here on the jump. Good-bye!"

As the bell rang off, and the reporter laid the instrument back on the table, he said:

"Gentlemen, I am ordered back to my office in haste. Yet, before I go, as a matter of news interest, I think I'd better ask you whether any action is going to be taken forbidding football in the High School?"

"N-n-not to the best of our knowledge," stammered Chairman Stone. "We have—taken no action along that line."

"Are you likely to take any such action tonight?"

"I—I—think not."

"Thank you, and goodnight, gentlemen. I offer you my apology and 'The Blade's' for having intruded on you in this fashion."

As soon as the members of the Board were alone Chairman Stone glanced about him, and remarked:

"So, it appears, gentlemen, that, if we do not favor High School football, we shall be regarded as what are termed 'dead ones'!"

III. NOT SO MUCH OF A FRESHMAN

The next morning's "Blade" contained a column and a half, written in Reporter Spencer's most picturesque vein. The headlines ran: "School Board Hoaxed. Gentle Jokers Convey a Needed Hint. Football Not to Be Barred in High School. 'Blade' Reporter a First-off Victim in the Service of Public Spirit."

It was a fine article, from a High School boy's point of view. It was an article, too, which, in a city ruled by a lively public spirit, was likely to tie the hands of a Board of Education that did not care to fly in the face of public opinion.

Dick Prescott, before he went in to breakfast, read the article in secret, with many a chuckle.

"You seem much interested in the newspaper, Richard," said his father, when the young freshman came to table, still holding 'The Blade.'"

"Yes, sir. You know I have set my heart on making the H.S. eleven just as soon as I strike a higher class. I was afraid the School Board would abolish the game from our school. Now, I know they won't."

"Hm! Let me see 'The Blade.'"

Mr. Prescott glanced through the article, a faint twinkle showing in his eyes.

"The School Board may stop High School football," commented Mr. Prescott, laying aside the paper. "They may, but it would take a good deal of courage, for that article will start Gridley on a furor of enthusiasm for the game. I wonder who got up that hoax."

"Why, Dad, 'The Blade,' hints at some one down at the Business Men's Club."

"Hm! I wonder who wrote the article."

"Perhaps Len Spencer," replied Dick. "You know, Dad, he's a great fan for all our H.S. sports."

"I can just see Jason Stone reading that article at his breakfast table this morning," smiled Mr. Prescott. "Stone is a great sail-trimmer, always afraid of the man who casts a vote."

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Prescott, coming in breezily from the kitchen.

Dick explained the news to his mother.

"Abolish football at the High School!" echoed Mrs. Prescott, indignantly. "And I've been sharing your great wish Dick, to make the team when you're old enough. They shan't do it, anyway, Dick, until you've had your chance on the eleven!"

"No, mother," replied the boy, very quietly; "I don't believe they will."

With a sudden rush of recollection of other pranks in which she had known her son to be engaged in the grammar school days, Mrs. Prescott shot a sudden, wondering glance at him. But Dick, looking utterly innocent, was chewing his food.

Frank Thompson, Ben Badger and Ted Butler, all seniors, and stars on the H.S. football team, had risen early that morning, every one of them feeling glum over the dread that the great sport might be "killed" for them. They were the only members of the eleven who happened to see "The Blade" early. In consequence, these three husky young Americans were on the street early. Just as naturally they ran into each other.

"Whoop!" yelled Thompson, when he came in sight of his pals.

"Wow!" observed Ben.

"And some more!" glowed Butler.

"Will they stop football now?" demanded Thompson.

"Not while anyone is looking," averred Butler.

"But say, it was great of the Business Men's Club to make such a stroke for us," went on Badger, enthusiastically.

"Yes," admitted Frank Thompson, "if that was where it came from. I guess it was, all right."

Arm in arm the three went off down the street, feeling as though the world had turned right side up once more.

Dick met his partners on the way to the High School. All were grinning quietly.

"You're the genius, Dick," admitted Dan Dalzell, cordially. "My undertaker scheme would have been ghastly. It would have taken all the edge off the joke—would have spoiled it, and the joke would have been a club that would have hit us over the head. But, say! I wonder if the Grannies' Club will dare to touch our sacred football now!"

"Don't waste any time wondering," chuckled Tom Reade. "They wont."

It was a happy day in the famous old Gridley High School. Actually, the recitations went off better than they had done on any day since term opening.

Dick Prescott was out on the street rather early that afternoon. He wanted to run across Len Spencer, and chose Main Street as the most likely thoroughfare for the purpose. He met the reporter at the head of a little alleyway.

"Well, Dick, how did you like it?" was the reporter's greeting.

"Say, it was great!" Dick bubbled over.

"What do they think down at H.S.?"

"Think?" repeated young Prescott. "Why, everybody is in ecstasies. The gloom of yesterday has vanished like the mist from a cheap cigar. You're suspected of writing the article, too, Len. If the High School students can find any proof that you did you'll get a rouser in the way of handsome treatment."

The two had stepped down just off the street into the alleyway.

"Does everyone seem to believe that the job was put up at the Business Men's Club?" Dick asked.

"Sure thing," nodded Len Spencer. "And no member of the Club will deny it, either, for the thing has struck the popular side of the town. Why, by tonight, there'll be at least a dozen of the members, each confidentially telling his friends that he conceived the whole trick."

"That'll make it all the stronger," nodded Dick. "Good thing."

"Glee!" chuckled Len. "Wouldn't the whole town—including the Board members—wake up, if they only knew that the whole thing was planned out by a fourteen-year-old freshie, by name Dick Prescott!"

"You won't let it out, Len, that I had any hand in it?" asked Dick, quickly.

"Oh, not I," promised Len, quickly. "I gave you my word on that, son, didn't I?"

"Now, see here," Dick went on, "why can't you push this thing along one day further? Why don't you interview a lot of the prominent business men on the absolute necessity of football for keeping up the H.S. spirit and traditions?"

"Good idea as far as it goes," assented Len, dubiously. "But a lot of the business men might prove to be fossilized, and be against the grand old game."

"Leave that sort out," hinted Dick, sagely, "and go after the right kind."

"How'll I know the right kind?" asked reporter Spencer, thoughtfully.

"Why, use your head a bit. There's Beck. He's a millionaire, and one of the big men of the town, isn't he?"

"Yes; but he may not believe in football."

"Shucks! Of course Beck believes in football," retorted Dick. "Doesn't his lumber yard furnish all the wooden goods that are needed for fences, seats, and all that sort of thing up at the athletic grounds? Doesn't Beck know that, if he said a word against football, he never get another order for lumber from the H.S. Alumni association. Then there's Carleson. He's one of the directors of the railroad, therefore a big enough man to interview."

"Where does Carleson come in on hot interest in football?"

"Use your head," jibed Dick. "Doesn't his railroad have lots of jobs transporting the football teams to other games, and bringing other teams here? Don't mobs of fans follow the teams and pay fare? Why, H.S. football is a dividend-payer to Carleson. Your own editor, Pollock, will come out for us. Besides the news football makes for 'The Blade,' just think of the profit from doing all the poster and ticket printing for us. Then there's Henley, who sells the team uniforms and other athletic goods and he's one of the aldermen! Why, man alive, there are a score of big men in town who can't afford to see H.S. football stopped. Here are some of their names——"

Dick rattled it along, giving a long list to Len Spencer, who jotted down the names.

"Thank you; old man," said the reporter, cordially. "I'll get these interviews, and it'll make a corking good second-day story. Pollock says I can push this as far as I like, for it has struck a popular vein. But Pollock says he wouldn't have thought of it, Dick, if you hadn't set the ball rolling."

"Then he knows the big part that my chums and I took in the game?" asked Dick, his face showing his concern.

"Yes; but don't worry. Old Pollock is as mum as the grave about such things. Now, so long, Dick, old fellow. I've got to run down to the end of this alley to call on a sick friend. Then I'll hustle out and get a barrelful of interviews that will cinch and rivet football on Gridley H.S. for a century to come!"

As Len Spencer vanished through one of the doorways Dick Prescott turned toward the street. As he did so, he jumped back.

"We want you, freshie!" declared Frank Thompson, grimly. "And we want you badly."

Badger and Butler, who were just behind the speaker, closed in firmly around the freshman.

"We heard, and we didn't feel ashamed to listen," declared Thompson. "So you're the genius that has been doing giant's work for football? You are under arrest, freshie—and I hope you'll come along without making any row."

Despite the severity of the looks in the faces of these three seniors, Dick Prescott did not feel very uneasy. He submitted to walking between Thompson and Butler, while Ben Badger brought up the rear. The unafraid prisoner was marched along and into another street, to where the football eleven had its "club room." This was an unoccupied store, the agent of which allowed the boys the use of the place, rent free, as long as it remained idle.

When near this headquarters Ben Badger darted ahead, throwing open the door, while Frank and Ted marched in with their prisoner.

"Attention!" roared Ben.

Nearly all the members and substitutes of the eleven were present. They were sorting over various bits of football paraphernalia. Several of them stopped work to look up as Ben Badger slammed the door shut again.

"Well, what are you making so much noise about?" demanded one of the second classmen. "You come in with a roar, and all you bring with you is—just a poor, insignificant little freshie."

"Oh, but what a freshman!" thundered Frank Thompson. "Listen, fellows, what do you suppose this freshman has done?"

"Lynch him for it, anyway, whatever it is," retorted another.

"Wait!" commanded Thompson. "And listen."

There upon Frank detailed what he and his two comrades had overheard at the head of the alleyway. Instantly the complexion of things changed. There were cheers and hoarse yells, as the football men rushed forward, crowding about Dick Prescott.

"Now I've told all that I heard," wound up Thompson. "We'll have to ask Mr. Prescott to favor us with the further details, which I trust he will be inclined to do."

"Mr. Prescott!" That, instead of "cub," "kid" or "freshie." Had the enthusiasm been less intense Dick would have been sure that they were having fun with him.

"Go on," ordered Ben Badger briefly. "Talk up!"

To have refused plain orders from a first classman might have been serious. Dick knew better. Clearing his throat he related all he could recall of how the plot came to be hatched. Nor was Dick glory-hunter enough to give himself any more credit than he did his partners. In his brief account the freshman spread all the credit for the invention equally over the six members of Dick & Co.

"'Twas a great thought, and carried out like a campaign," declared Ben Badger. There was more cheering. Then Frank Thompson dragged Dick forward once more before the lined-up team.

"Fellows," proposed Thompson, "we owe this freshie——"

"Stop that!" roared one of the fellows. "Prescott may be young—painfully young—but he's no freshie."

"Then," amended Thompson, with grave dignity, "we owe a handsome reward to this—upper classman. May I tell him what the reward is to be?"

"Go ahead, Thomp!" came an answering roar.

"Then, listen, Prescott. For the great deed you have done for Gridley H.S. football every member of Dick & Co. deserves undying fame. As I can't be sure of our ability to confer that, we'll do the next best thing. In years and class you're all six of you freshmen. Now, what is expected of a freshman?"

"Why," laughed Dick, "as I understand it, a freshman is a fellow who doesn't dare to be fresh."

"Hear! hear!" yelled a dozen voices.

"In that respect," proclaimed Thompson, solemnly, "Dick & Co. shall no longer be freshman at Gridley H.S.! If the spirit seizes any of you, then go ahead and be fresh—of course, not too fresh! Mix in with the upper classmen, all of you, if you want to. Have your opinions, and don't be afraid to let 'em out—if you can't hold in any longer. To the upper class dances this winter Dick & Co. shall have a bid—if you'll all learn how to walk and glide across a waxed floor. Remember, when you're among the fellows, you don't have to keep in the back freshmen row—but see to it that you don't encourage general mutiny in your class against the superior upper classes. Finally, you can get sassy with all upper classman whenever any of you six want to—all you'll have to do, further, will be to fight."

Another round of cheers confirmed Thompson's declaration.

"Now, fellows, get a move on!" bawled Sam Edgeworth, captain of the football eleven. "We've barely time to get to the field and meet Coach Morton punctually."

"Will you let me make one request?" shouted Dick, over the hubbub.

"Yes. Go ahead! Get it out quick!"

"Then please don't let out a word," begged young Prescott, "about Dick & Co., as we fellows are called, being at the bottom of the plot against the Board of Education."

"Not a word!" promised Captain Edgeworth, gravely.

Then Dick was hustled good-naturedly to the door, Ben Badger once more springing forward to hold it open. As Dick hurried out onto the sidewalk a hurricane of cheers followed him. Then, as the door was closing, came a fierce burst of the High School yell.

Just as it happened, this parting salute couldn't have been worse timed. Within four doors Dr. Thornton, the principal, was sauntering slowly along. He heard tine hubbub, of course, and looked up, to see Dick Prescott coming out alone, a pleased look on his flushed face.

Across the street, just coming out of a store, was Chairman Jason Stone of the Gridley Board of Education.

"Young Prescott! Bless my soul!" murmured Dr. Thornton. "Why are the football team making such a row over that young freshman?"

In another instant the principal's question all but answered itself.

"Why, I wonder," muttered the good doctor, "if the enthusiasm in any way relates to the hoax on the Board. Was Prescott at the bottom of it? I'll keep it in mind and try to find out!"

"If the football crew are making all that row over a mere freshman," thought Chairman Stone, "then young Prescott must be the inventor of the yarn that has made Gridley wonder whether we of the Board are so many 'dead ones.' Hm! hm! I'll find out if that's the case. Such a trick is clearly one that would call for expelling the young man from the High School!"

IV. CAPTAIN OF THE HOUNDS

"Is that mucker going to run today?"

The questioner was Fred Ripley, and his voice was full of disgust. He glared at Dick Prescott, who was seated unconcernedly on a stone wall, awaiting the arrival of Tom Reade and Dan Dalzell, the only other members of Dick & Co. who were to figure in today's event.

"Is who going to run?" asked Ben Badger.

"That little mucker, Prescott?" insisted Fred.

"Yes," returned Badger, shortly.

"Gridley H.S. is getting worse and worse," growled Ripley. "Athletics ought to be confined to the best sort of fellows in the school. These little muckers, these nobodies, ought to be kept out of everything in which the real fellows take part."

"Don't be a cad, Ripley," retorted Badger, half angrily.

"Oh, I'm no great stickler for caste, and that sort of thing," Fred grumbled on. "I'm democratic enough, when it comes to that, and I associate with a good many fellows whose fathers don't stand as high in the community as mine does."

"That's really kind of you," mimicked Ben Badger, with another look of disgust at the rich lawyer's son. "Of course, you feel just as though anything that your father may have accomplished puts you in a rather more elect lot."

"Of course, it does," retorted Fred, drawing himself up stiffly. "Still, you know as well as anyone does, Badger, that I'm not stuck up just on account of family or position. I'm ready to give the friend's hand to any of the right sort of fellows. But what is that little mucker, Prescott? His parents peddle books and newspapers."

"They run a book and periodical shop, if that is what you mean," rejoined Ben, disgustedly, as he looked the young snob over for the third time. "Some mighty big people have done that in times past. As to position, Prescott's father isn't a rich man, nor a very successful one, but I wish I could look forward, some day, to being half as well educated as Dick's father is."

"A dreamer, a fool, a man who couldn't and didn't succeed," sneered Fred. "And his son will be a bigger mistake in life. I don't have anything to do with that kind of people and their friends."

"I'll wish you good-day, then," broke in Badger, crisply, and moved away. "I want to be reckoned as one of Dick Prescott's friends. He's one of the most promising young fellows in Gridley H.S."

Ripley let loose an astounded gasp. He stood still where Badger had left him, boiling over with rage. Had Ripley been wise, he would have chosen another time for anger. Any trainer or physician could have told this young snob that just before going off on a long race is the worst possible time for letting anger get the best of one. Anger excites the action of the heart to a degree that makes subsequent running performance a thing of difficulty.

Gridley H.S. was out for the October paper chase. This was an annual event, in which the sophomores, or third classmen, acted as the hares, while the freshmen played the part of the hounds. The course was six miles across country. Three courses, of equal length, were laid down, each with a different terminal. It was known, in advance, only to the hares, which course would be run over. But, which ever course was taken, it must be followed to the end. Five minutes' start was allowed to the hares. Then the hounds were sent after them in full yelp. By starting time for the hounds the hares were sure to be out of sight. An official of the first class, who followed the hares at the outset, gave the call when the five minutes were up. Beginning with that call the hares were obliged to scatter bits of paper, as they ran, all the way to the finish of the run.

All three of the courses were somewhat parallel during the first five minutes of the run, but, as the hounds had no means of knowing which course was the right one, the hounds had to divide their forces until the first of the paper trails was struck. Then the "baying" of the hounds who found the trail brought the other two parties of freshmen to them. Usually, four or five upper classmen ran with the hounds to decide upon "captures" in case of dispute. A hound overhauling a hare had to throw his arms around the prize, stopping him fairly for at least fifteen seconds. Then the hare was sent back, out of the race. Each hound was credited with the hare he captured.

Twelve hares ran, also twelve hounds. If the hounds captured seven or more of the hares ere the race was finished, then the hounds won. If they captured less than six, the hares won. If six hares were captured, then the race was a "tie." But, as will be seen, with the five minutes' start, and the hares averaging a year more of age, the sophomore class usually won this chase.

These rules had originated at Gridley, where the High School boys considered their form of the game superior to the rules usually followed.

This year, as in previous years, the sophomores felt confident of winning. The freshmen hounds averaged rather small in size, though little was known as to the freshmen running powers or wind. The sophomores were all good runners.

The contestants for positions on both teams had been tried out three days before, by a committee of men from the first class. The sophomores had not been allowed to see the freshmen run at these trials.

The start was to be made at three o'clock on this Monday afternoon. All the runners were now here, Reade and Dalzell having been among the last of the freshmen to come up. It was ten minutes before three.

"Half of the freshmen are a pretty mucky looking lot, aren't they?" asked Ripley, as he and Purcell, of the hares, strolled by.

"I hadn't noticed it," replied Purcell pleasantly. "I thought them a clean and able looking lot of young fellows."

"Humph! A pretty cheap lot! I call 'em," rejoined Ripley.

Dick Prescott heard and flushed slightly. He understood the allusion, coming from the source that it did. But Dick was bent on making a good run this afternoon, and kept his temper.

"Hares on the line!" shouted Frank Thompson, finally. He was to fire the shots that started the two teams, then was to run with the hounds to act as one of the judges of possible captures.

Purcell, who was captain of the hares, led his men forward to the line laid across the grass. Just before they formed, the captain gave some whispered instructions. Ben Badger was already at the line. He was to run with the hares during the first five minutes, then give the final signal for beginning to scatter the paper trail.

"On the line there, quick!" called Thompson, watch in his left hand, pistol in his right. "Ready!"

The hares, each with a bag of torn paper hanging over one hip, bent forward.

Crack! At the report of the pistol the hares bounded forward. In barely more than a minute afterwards they were out of sight.

Then followed some minutes of tedious waiting for the Gridley freshmen.

"Hounds to the line!"

Dick, who had been elected captain of the freshmen team, led his men forward on all easy lope. Dick took his place at the extreme left of the pursuing line, with Tom Reade next to him; then Dan Dalzell.

"Ready!" A pause of a few seconds. Crack!

The pistol sent the hounds away. They did not attempt to run fast. Captain Dick Prescott's orders were against that. The hounds moved away at an easy lope, for there were miles yet to be covered. Six miles, in fact, is more than average High School boys of the lower classes can make at a cross-country jog. A go-as-you-please gait was therefore allowed. Either hare or hound might walk when he preferred.

But for the first five minutes the hounds, who divided into three squads almost immediately, moved along at an easy jog. Every eye was alert for the first sign of a paper trail. There were six upper classmen running with the hounds. Ben Badger was somewhere ahead, hiding in order not to betray the trail. But, when he had been passed, Badger would jump up and run with the hounds, making the seventh judge.

"I wonder if we've a ghost of a show to win," muttered Tom Reade.

"Every show in the world—until we're beaten!" replied Dick, doggedly. "It isn't in the Gridley blood to wonder if we can win—we've got to win!"

After that Dick closed his lips firmly. He must save his wind for the long cross-country.

On the left the runners were now in a field. The center was moving along the highway, the right wing being in a field over beyond.

"Wow-oo! wow-oo! wow-oo!" sounded a deep, far-away chorus.

"There's the trail, away over to the right!" shouted Captain Dick. "Come on, fellows!"

On an oblique line he led them, toward the road. They took a low stone wall on the leap, vaulting the fence at the other side of the road. The center squad had already overtaken the discoverers of the trail.

"Run easily. Don't try to cover it all in a minute. Save your wind!" admonished Dick to his own squad.

The upper classmen judges ran well behind the hounds. It was needful only that they be near enough to see and decide any disputed point of capture.

It was all of twenty-five minutes over a course that led across fields and through woods, ere the hounds caught the first glimpse of their quarry. Yet, all along, the paper trail was in evidence. One of the hares was required to strew the small bits of paper. When his bag was empty another hare must begin dropping the white bits.

"I'll bet Ripley dropped along here—the trail is so mean and difficult," grunted Reade, disgustedly.

"There are the hares ahead—I see two of them!" bellowed Dan Dalzell, lustily.

A chorus from the hounds responded an instant later. Yes; they had come in sight of the chase. But the rearmost hares were still a good half mile away. Then the hares disappeared into a forest, leaving only the paper trail as evidence of their presence.

"Brook ahead!" sang out Captain Dick. "Go easily and save some of your wind for jumping."

In a minute more they came to it. Most of the hounds knew when to start on the faster run that must precede the running jump.

Splash! splash.

Splash! spla-a-ash!

Four of the freshmen floundered in the knee-deep water. Well doused, they must none the less dash out of the cold water and continue on the chase.

"Keep a-moving, and you'll soon be dry and warm," Dick called backward over his shoulder. The four who had been badly wet ran heavily now, yet afraid of ridicule if they fell out. They were having their first taste of High School sports, which made no allowance for quitters.

Twenty minutes later a low hurrah went up from the freshmen hounds. Dawson, of the hares, found the pace too swift for him. With a slight pain in his side he lagged so that one of the hounds put on an extra spurt, then wound his arms around the sophomore.

"Fair capture!" bawled one of the judges, and Dawson, dropping out, sat down until he could get his wind back.

Within the next twenty minutes four more of the hares fell into the maws of the hounds.

Five captures! That was fine. Only two more needed, and less than two miles to cover.

The hares were, at this time, again out of sight in the woods ahead. But Captain Dick, having saved his wind well, now put on a slightly better spurt and jogged ahead, full of the purpose of capturing his second hare. One of the "catches" was already recorded to his credit.

"There's one of the hares," Dick flashed to himself, as he caught an indistinct glimpse of a sweater and a moving pair of legs ahead. "He seems to be losing his wind, too—that fellow."

In a minute more Dick gave another gasp of discovery.

"It's Fred Ripley. I suppose it will be bitter medicine for him, if I make the catch," thought the young captain of the hounds.

Though he was too manly, too good a sportsman to allow malice to creep in, Prescott certainly did do his best to overtake the lagging Fred.

Gradually, the young captain left the hares behind. But Badger, who was an easy runner, forged ahead so as to keep the leading hound in full sight.

Hearing some one running behind him, Fred Ripley glanced backward over his shoulder.

"The mucker!" gritted the lawyer's son. "He mustn't catch me—he shan't!"

Yet vainly did Ripley try to put on more speed. He kept it up for a few yards, then knew that he was failing. That ill-advised anger before the start was surely telling on him now. Dick still kept forward, gaining a yard or so every few minutes.

"Keep back! Don't you dare touch me, you mucker!" hissed Fred sharply over his shoulder.

"Mucker?" retorted Prescott. "I'll pay you for that!"

At a bound he covered the distance, throwing first one arm, then the other, fairly around Ripley. Fred fought furiously to break the clasp, but was so winded that he couldn't.

"Let go of me! Your touch soils!" he cried, hoarsely.

But Dick still kept his hold, counting: "—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!"

"Fair capture!" rumbled Ben Badger.

The other hounds, or their leaders, were stripping by now. Dick, at the judge's words, loosed his hold on Fred.

"You cur!" snarled Fred. Then, summoning all his remaining strength, Ripley hauled off and struck astounded Dick on the face, sending the captain of the hounds to the ground.

"Take that, mucker!" shouted the assailant.

Those of the hounds who had not shot by, halted in sheer amazement.

Like a flash Dick was on his feet, his eyes flashing, cheeks flushing crimson.

"Go on, hounds, go on!" he shouted. "I can take care of this one disgrace to Gridley H.S.!"

V. THE "MUCKER" AND THE "GENTLEMAN"

Ben Badger gave Captain Dick a shove. "Go on, Prescott! Go on, hounds!" roared Badger. "You've only one more capture to make. Run along, Dick! I'll take care of Ripley. He'll stay right here until you come back, or else he'll never have the nerve to show his face at Gridley H.S. again! Run, you hounds!"

Dick needed no farther urging.

Though he was naturally wild with anger, inside, he managed to keep that feeling down and back. He was captain of the hounds. He had his duty to his team and his class first of all to think about.

"Come on, hounds!" he shouted to those who had lagged at sight of the knock-down. "One more hare in our trap—then we'll be back here!"

What he meant by being "back here" everyone present could guess. In fact, many wondered why there had not sooner been a fight between the freshman and his determined sophomore enemy.

Truth to tell, Dick, after that day in the school grounds, had been inclined to overlook the whole affair.

He was not afraid of Ripley. It was only that Dick's ordinary good nature had triumphed. He was not a brawler, yet could stand out for his rights when a need came.

A third of a mile further on another yell of triumph floated back to young Prescott, who had not yet regained the lead.

In a few moments more the last of the hounds came upon a flushed, joyous group of freshmen runners. With them were two of the judges and a sheepish-looking hare.

The freshmen hounds had won, and had bagged all the hares for which the game called. Let the five remaining hares keep on running to the finish, if they would. For the first time in seven years the freshmen hounds, led by Captain Dick Prescott, had won.

"Ki-yi-yi-yi-yi!" howled the exultant fourth classmen. "And another for Dick Prescott."

"Dick Prescott has other game on his hands now," spoke up Dan Dalzell, one of the late arrivals.

"What's the row?" demanded the freshman who had just bagged the seventh hare.

"Row? That's just it," nodded Dan. "Prescott caught Ripley—"

"We saw that."

"But you didn't see the finish. Ripley, as soon as he was released, knocked Dick down."

"And you came on with the hounds, Dick!" demanded Tom Reade, incredulously.

"Badger is keeping Ripley on ice until we get back," Dan supplied, hastily.

"Then let us get back quick!" begged Reade.

"Not too fast, though," objected Dan. "Remember, Ripley has been getting his wind back since he stopped. Give our Dick the same show."

No one thought of asking why Dick would need his wind now. To those who had heard the brief recital of facts it was plain that there could be but one finish to the afternoon's sport. Prescott's hand was sound, at last, and he could give an account of himself.

"Walk slowly, all hands," insisted Dan. "Dick, old fellow, on the way back, amuse yourself by getting in all the full, deep breaths that you can."

"I'll be all right," spoke Dick confidently.

It did not look that way to many of them. Dick was shorter, and weighed much less than did the sophomore who was waiting back there under the trees. Ripley had had a good deal of training in boxing, and was not a coward when he thought the odds on his own side. What none of the fellows knew, though, was that the lawyer's son, ever since that scene in the school yard, had been at his boxing lessons again with renewed energy.

"Play him for delay, at first, Dick," whispered Dan. "If Ripley can rush you, and get you excited, he'll have a better chance to win out. If you hold him off, hinder him and delay him, before long he'll lose some of his nerve. A fellow like Ripley will begin to go all to pieces, once he gets it into his head that he has a long and hard job before him."

"I'll do my best," Dick promised. "Hang it, if he hadn't knocked me down so treacherously, I wouldn't care about fighting. I don't care so much what he says. Fred Ripley's mouth is the weakest part of him."

The sophomore was waiting, a sulky frown on his face. A few feet away Ben Badger, a grim look on his usually good-humored face, leaned against a tree, his arms folded.

Even had he wanted to get away from this, Ripley couldn't have done it. For a sophomore to find any excuse for getting out of a fight with a freshman would bring down upon the soph all the wrath and disgust of the disgraced third class.

"Come on, mucker! Take off your sweater and get ready to take your real medicine!" snarled Fred, harshly.

But Dick Prescott, young as he was, was much too wise to allow himself to be betrayed into anger. Instead, he halted a few feet away, looking with a significant smile at his enemy.

"As I understand it," replied Prescott, "the festivities that are soon to commence are to decide which is the mucker—which will go down to the ground to eat his fill of dirt."

Badger, Thompson and Butler took upon themselves the direction of the coming "affair."

"See here, Ted, you look after Ripley's interests," proposed Badger.

"It's a mean job. I'd sooner have the other side of the bet," grumbled Ted Butler, in an undertone.

"I'll look after young Prescott," continued Ben Badger. "Thomp will do all the honors as referee."

Ripley was already peeling off his sweater.

"Get down to your fighting rig, Prescott," urged Badger, leading his principal to one side. "How are you, boy?" he whispered, anxiously. "Feeling right up to the fighting pitch?"

"I hate fighting," Dick answered, simply, speaking so that only his second could hear him.

"Of course it's necessary sometimes, but I can never quite help feeling that, at best, it's low-down business."

"So it is," assented Bed Badger, heartily enough. "But what about it in the case of a sneak like Ripley? If he didn't have other fellows' fists to fear he'd be unbearable."

"He is, anyway," muttered Dick, just before his head was covered by the sweater that Badger was helping him remove.

"You've been doing a lot of running this afternoon, gentlemen," declared Thompson, as the two combatants came toward him. "Do you each feel as though you had fighting wind left?"

"I've got as much as the other fellow," replied Dick.

"Don't you dare refer to me as a 'fellow'!" ordered Ripley, scowling.

"I'll call you a girl, then, if you prefer," proposed Dick, with a tantalizing grin.

"You don't know how to talk to gentlemen," retorted Fred, harshly.

"Be silent, both of you," ordered Thompson, sternly. "You can do your talking in another way.

"Can't begin too soon for me," uttered Ripley.

"One minute rounds for you, gentlemen," continued Thompson, then turned to another upper classman, requesting him to hold the watch. "Now are you ready?"

Ripley grunted, Dick nodded.

"Ready, then! Shake hands!"

"I won't," replied Dick, sturdily, ere Fred could speak. The latter, though he, too, would have refused, went white with rage.

"Take your places, then," directed Thompson, briskly. "Ready! Time!"

Fred Ripley put up a really splendid guard as he advanced warily upon the freshman. Dick's guard, at the outset, was not as good. They feinted for two or three passes, then Ripley let out a short-arm jab that caught Dick Prescott on the end of the nose. Blood began to drip.

Ripley's eyes danced. "I'll black both eyes, too, before I put you out," he threatened, in a low tone, as he fought in for another opening.

"Brag's a good dog," retorted Dick, quietly. The blow, though it had stung, had served to make him only the more cool. He was watching, cat-like, for Ripley's style of attack. That style was a good one, from the "scientific" view-point, if Ripley could maintain it without excitement and all the while keep his wind.

But would he? The freshman, though not much of a lover of fighting, had made some study of the art. Moreover, Dick had a dogged coolness that went far in the arena.

Suddenly, Dick let go such a seemingly careless shoulder blow with his left, straight for Ripley's face, that Fred almost lazily threw up his right arm to stop it. But to have that right out of the way was just what Prescott was playing for. Quick as thought Dick's right flew out, colliding with Ripley's mid-wind with a force that brought a groan from the taller fighter. Dick might have followed it up, but he chivalrously sprang back, waiting for Fred to make the first sign of renewal of combat.

"Time!" came from the boy with the watch.

"Kid, you're going to be all right; you've got your horse-sense with you," glowed Ben Badger, as he hurried Dick back under a tree. "Let me see what I can do to stop your nose running quite so red."

Soon the summons came that took the combatants back to the imaginary ring. Again they went at it, both sides cautious, for Ripley was puzzled and a bit afraid. He had not expected this little freshman to last for a second round. Before the second call of "time" came Ripley had managed to land two stinging ones on Dick's left cheek, but the freshman did not go down, nor even wilt under this treatment. He was proving the fact that he could "take punishment." Yet Dick did not land anything that hurt his opponent.

"You didn't half try this time," whispered Ben, as he attended his man in the "corner" under the tree.

"Come on, mucker!" yelled Ripley, derisively, when the two were summoned for the third round.

"Speak for yourself, fellow," Dick answered, coolly.

"I'm a gentleman, and a gentleman's son," proclaimed Fred, haughtily. "You're a mucker, and the son of a mucker!"

"Time!"

Dick could stand an ordinary insult with a fair amount of good nature, when he despised the source of the insult. But now there was a quiet flash in his eyes that Badger was glad to see.

Ripley started in to rush things. In quick succession he delivered half a dozen stout blows. Only one of then landed, and that glancingly. Ripley was puzzled, but he had no time to guess. For Dick was not exactly rushing, now. He was merely fighting in close, remembering that he had two striking hands, and that feinting was sometimes useful.

"A-a-a-h!" The murmur went up, eagerly, as the onlookers saw Prescott land his right fist in solid impact against Ripley's right eye. Bump! Before Ripley could get back out of such grueling quarters Dick had landed a second blow over the other eye. Ripley staggered. A body blow sent him to his knees. Dick backed off but a few inches.

"One, two, three, four, five, six——" droned off the timekeeper.

Fred Ripley tried to leap up, but, as he did so, Dick's waiting left caught him a staggering one on the nose that toppled him over backwards to the ground.

"One, two, three——" began the timekeeper, but suddenly broke off, to call time.

"Prescott, you're a bird!" declared Ben Badger, exultantly, as he led his man away.

"I wouldn't have gone for him so hard," muttered Dick. "But the fellow started to get nasty with his mouth. Then it was time to let him have it."

Frank Thompson went over to Ripley, to see whether the latter wanted to continue the fight.

"That mucker took an unfair advantage of me, hitting me when I was getting up," grumbled Fred, who now looked a good deal battered.

"Prescott was right within the rules," declared Thompson. "You would have done the same thing if you had had the chance."

Fred growled something under his breath.

"Are you coming back to the ring?" demanded the referee.

Ripley hesitated. The yellow streak was strong in him, but he dreaded letting the others see it.

"I'd rather finish this up some other day," he proposed.

"You know you can't do that," retorted Thompson, disgustedly. "You either have to come up to the scratch, or admit yourself beaten."

"Admit myself beaten—by that mucker?" gasped Ripley, turning livid.

"Then come up at the call of time," directed Thompson, and strode back to the battle ground.

The timekeeper called. Dick Prescott returned to his ground. Ripley stood back, leaning against a tree. He tried hard to look dignified, but one glance at his nose and eyes was enough to spoil the effect.

"Coming, Ripley?" demanded Thompson.

"Brace up, man, unless you want to admit your thrashing," urged Ted Butler.

"I'll attend to that mucker when I feel like it," growled Fred Ripley.

The form of the remark was unfortunate for the one who made it, for it caused one of the freshman class to call out exultantly:

"He sure doesn't feel like it just now. Look at him!"

"Come, if you don't hurry in you've get to admit the beating," muttered Ted Butler.

Ripley's reply being only a snort, Butler suddenly drew forth his handkerchief, rolling it rapidly into a ball.

"In default of a sponge," called Butler, "I throw this up for my man—I mean principal."

"Ripley being unable to come to the scratch, the fight is awarded to Prescott," announced Frank Thompson.

"Whoop! Hoo-oo-ray!" The freshmen clustered about were wild with excitement.

"You'll have a fine time squaring this with the sophomore class," uttered Ted Butler, disgustedly. "Your class, Ripley, will be sore enough, anyway, over losing the paper chase for the first time that any of us can remember. Now, for a soph to be thrashed, in three rounds, by a little freshman——"

Butler didn't finish, but, turning on his heel, walked over to join the rest.

There were two sophomores there who had come over at the end of the paper chase, but neither went to the assistance of his defeated classman. Ripley, alone, got his sweater back over his head. The crowd was around Dick Prescott, who felt almost ashamed of the fight, unavoidable as he knew it to have been.

When he had finished getting his clothes on, Ripley stalked moodily past the main group.

"You mucker," he hissed, "I suppose you feel swelled up over having had a chance to fight gentleman. You——"

"Oh, Ripley, dry up—do!" interjected Ted Butler. "You call yourself a gentleman, but you talk and act more like well, more like a pup with the mange!"

"A pup with the mange! Great!" came the gleeful chorus from a half score of freshmen.

"I'm not through with you, yet, Prescott!" Fred Ripley called back over his shoulder. "I'll settle my score with you at my convenience!"

Then, as he put more distance between himself and the other Gridley High School boys, Ripley added to himself:

"That settlement shall stop at nothing to put Dick Prescott in the dust—where he belongs."

"Oh, freshie, but you've coolness and judgment," cried Thompson, approvingly. "And you've broken one cad's heart today."

"I'm sorry if I have," declared Dick, frankly, generously. "I wouldn't have had any heart in the fight if he hadn't started in to humiliate me. I wouldn't have cared so much for that, either. But he started to say something nasty about my parents, and I have as good parents as ever a boy had. Then I felt I simply had to fit a plug between Ripley's teeth."

Fred Ripley had pain in his eyes to help keep him awake that night. Yet he would have been awake, anyway, for his wicked brain was seething with plans for the way to "get even" with Dick Prescott.

VI. FRED OFFERS TO SOLVE THE LOCKER MYSTERY

For a week Gridley High School managed to get along without the presence of Fred Ripley. That haughty young man was at home, nursing a pair of black eyes and his wrath.

Yet, in a whole week, a mean fellow who is rather clever can hatch a whole lot of mischief. This Dick & Co., and some others, were presently to discover.

All outer wraps were left in the basement in locker rooms on which barred iron doors were locked. In the boys' basement were lockers A and B. Each locker was in charge of a monitor who carried the key to his own particular locker room.

As it happened Dick Prescott was at present monitor of Locker A.

If during school hours, one of the boys wanted to get his hat out of a locker the monitor of that locker went to the basement with him, unlocking the door, and locking it again after the desired article of apparel had been obtained.

Thus, in a general way, each monitor was responsible for the safety of hats, coats, umbrellas, overshoes, etc., that might have been left in the locker that was in his charge.

Wednesday, just after one o'clock one of the sophomore boys went hurriedly up the stairs, a worried look on his face. He went straight to the principal's office, and was fortunate enough to find that gentleman still at his desk.

"What is it, Edwards?" asked the principal, looking up.

"Dr. Thornton, I've had something strange happen to me, or to my overcoat, if you prefer to put it that way," replied Edwards.

"What has gone wrong?"

"Why, sir, relying on the safety of the looker, I left, at recess in one of my overcoat pockets, a package containing a jeweled pin that had been repaired for my mother. Now, sir, on going down to my coat, I found the pin missing from the pocket."

"Did you look thoroughly on the floor, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir; hunted thoroughly."

"Wait; I'll go down with you," proposed the principal.

Both principal and student searched thoroughly in the locker. Dick, as in duty bound, was still there, on guard at the door.

"Mr. Prescott," asked puzzled Dr. Thornton, did any student have admittance to the locker after recess today?"

"None, sir," answered Dick promptly.

"Hm! And you're absolutely sure, Mr. Edwards, that you left the little package in your overcoat pocket?"

"Positive of it, Dr. Thornton."

"It's so strange that it startles me," admitted the good principal.

"It startles me a good deal," confessed Edwards, grimly, "to think what explanation I am to offer my mother."

"Oh, well, it must turn up," replied Dr. Thornton, though vaguely. "Anyway, Edwards, there has been no theft. The door is locked, and the only two keys to it are the one carried by the monitor and a duplicate which is kept locked in my own desk. You'll probably find it in one of your pockets."

"I have been through every pocket in my clothes at least seven times, sir," insisted the dismayed Edwards. "And that is a rather valuable pin," he added; "worth, I believe, something, like fifty dollars."

"Rest assured that we'll have some good explanation of the mystery before long," replied the principal as soothingly as he could.

Edwards went away, sore and disheartened, but there was nothing more to be said or done.

Thursday morning Dr. Thornton carried the investigation further, but absolutely no light could be shed on the missing pin.

But at recess it was Frank Thompson who came upstairs breathless.

"Dr. Thornton," he cried, excitedly, "it's my own fault, of course, but I'm afraid I've seen the last of my watch. It's one that father carried for a good many years, and at last gave me. The works are not very expensive, but the case was a gold one."

"How did you lose it?" inquired the principal, looking up over the gold rims of his spectacles.

"Why, I had to hurry to make school this morning, sir, and, as you know, it's a rather long walk. So I carried my watch in the little change pocket in my reefer in order to be able to look at it frequently. I reached the locker just in time not to be late, and forgot and left my watch in the reefer. When I went down just now I found the watch gone."

"Oh, but this is serious!" gasped Dr. Thornton, in dismay. "It begins to look like an assured fact that there is some thief at work. Yet Prescott alone has a key to that locker."

"Prescott is all right. He's no thief," put in Thompson, quickly.

"I agree with you, Mr. Thompson. I consider Mr. Prescott too manly a fellow to be mixed up in anything dishonest. Yet something is wrong—very wrong. For the safety and good name of us all we must go to the bottom of this mystery."

That, of course, was all the satisfaction Thompson could expect at the moment. He went out to the remainder of his recess, feeling decidedly blue. Nor was Dr. Thornton any less disturbed.

When recess was over, the entire body of students was questioned in the general assembly room, but no light was forthcoming.

"Of course, in view of what has happened," counseled Dr. Thornton, "the young gentlemen will do well to leave nothing of value in their coats in the locker rooms. And while nothing distressing, has yet happened in the young ladies basement, I trust they will govern themselves by what has happened on the young men's side."

Dick Prescott felt much concerned over it all, though he did not imagine that anyone suspected him of any share in the disappearance of articles of value.

Friday there were no mishaps, for the very simple reason that no one left anything of value in the locker rooms.

On Monday Fred Ripley was back again. With the aid of a little help from the druggist the haughty young man presented two eyes that did not show any signs of having been damaged. Fred himself offered no comment on his absence. He seemed anxious to be on especially good terms with all of the upper classmen with whom he usually associated.

During the first period of the morning Ripley had no recitation on. He sat at his desk studying. Presently as permitted under the rules, he whispered softly with the boy seated behind him.

Then, suddenly, Ripley rose and tip-toed down the aisle to the desk. The principal himself sat there in charge.

"Dr. Thornton," began Ripley, in a low voice, "I was away last week, and so didn't hear all the school news. I have just learned about the locker room thefts, and so I'm uneasy. Just as the bell rang I was having trouble with the pearl and diamond scarf-pin that I often wear. There wasn't time to adjust it, so I dropped it in my overcoat pocket. I would like to go down to my coat, now, and get it."

"Prescott is reciting in IV. Physics," replied Dr. Thornton, rising. "However, in view of all that has happened, I think we shall do well to go down and call him out of class. I don't want any more valuable articles to be missing."

Principal and student went quietly to the floor below. Dr. Thornton thrust his head into the physics laboratory and quietly called Dick out, explaining what was wanted.

"You'll come, too, won't you, doctor?" asked Ripley.

The principal nodded without speaking. As the three reached the barred door, Dick inserted the key, then threw open the door. Fred marched over to his coat, thrusting his hand into a pocket.

"By thunder, it's gone!" gasped Fred.

In an instant Dr. Thornton bounded into the locker room. He himself explored every pocket in the boy's coat.

"Strange! strange!" muttered the bewildered principal.

"All the other thefts happened in this locker, didn't they?" inquired Ripley, suspiciously.

"Yes—if thefts they were," admitted Dr. Thornton.

"Nothing missing from the other locker room?"

"Nothing."

"Doctor," went on Ripley, as though loath to utter the words, I hate to suggest anything of the sort. But—er—but—has the monitor of this locker been searched after any of the—er—disappearances?"

"Ripley, you forget yourself!" cried the principal.

"What do you mean!" flared Dick, in the same breath, turning crimson, next going very white.

"Doctor, I'm sorry," spoke Ripley, with great seeming reluctance, "but that pin is a costly one. I ask that the monitor be searched!"

VII. DICK'S TURN TO GET A JOLT

"Ripley, you don't realize what you are saying!" cried Dr. Thornton, gazing at the sophomore in very evident distress.

"I only know that I'm all broken up, sir, over losing my costly pin," persisted Fred. "And I know my father will be angry, and will raise a row at the School Board's meeting."

Dick Prescott, standing by, had turned from scarlet to white, and back again.

"But Ripley," explained the principal, almost pleadingly, "the act would be illegal. No one has a lawful right to search the person of anyone except a properly qualified police officer. And even the police officer can do so only after he has arrested a suspected person."

"Oh, then I suppose, sir, there's no show for me to get any real justice done in this matter," muttered Fred, with an air of feigned resignation.

But by now Dick Prescott felt that he must speak—or explode.

"Dr. Thornton," he cried, chokingly, "the charge made against me, or, at least, implied, is an outrageous one. But, as a matter of justice to me, now that the hint has been cast, I ask that you, sir, search me right here and now."

"Then you've had time to hide the pin!" muttered Fred, in a very low voice.

Dick Prescott heard, but he paid no heed to the fellow.

"Dr. Thornton, will you search me—now?" insisted the young freshman.

"But I don't want to, Prescott," appealed the principal. "I haven't the remotest suspicion of you, anyway, my dear boy."

"I ask the search, sir, just as a matter of justice," Dick insisted. "If it were not too strong a word, then I would say that I demand to be searched here and now."

Suiting the action to the word, Dick Prescott, standing proudly erect, raised both arms over his head.

"Now, please, doctor, just as a matter of simple justice," begged the young freshman.

"Oh, very well, then, Mr. Prescott," sighed the principal. "But I never had a more distasteful task."

Into one of the side pockets Dr. Thornton projected a shaking hand. He drew out only some scraps of paper, which he promptly thrust back. Then he inserted a hand in the jacket pocket on the other side.

"Ouch!" suddenly exclaimed the principal, in very real pain.

He drew the hand out, quickly. A drop of blood oozed up at the tip of his forefinger.

"Mr. Prescott," demanded Dr. Thornton, "what is that pointed object in your pocket?"

"What?" demanded Fred Ripley, tensely.

Dick himself thrust a hand into that pocket, and drew forth—Fred Ripley's missing pin.

"What—why—who——" gasped the freshman, suffocatingly.

"Oh, yes, of course," jeered Fred Ripley. "Astonished, aren't you—you mucker?"

The last two words Ripley uttered in so low a tone that the principal, gazing in horrified fascination at the pin that he now held in his own hands, did not hear.

"You coward!" cried Dick, hotly, and clenched his fist, intent on driving it against the sophomore's face.

But Dr. Thornton knew enough about High School boys' fights, to galvanize himself into action. Like a flash he bounded between the two boys.

"Here, here, Prescott, none of that!" he admonished.

"I—I beg your pardon, sir," gasped Dick, in a tone which made it very plain that he did not include his enemy in that apology.

"May I trouble you for my pin, sir, now that it has been recovered?" asked Fred, coolly.

"Why—um!—that depends," replied Dr. Thornton, slowly, speaking with a painful effort. "If you, or your father, have or would have any idea of a criminal prosecution, Ripley, then it would be improper to return your pin. It would have to be turned over to the police as an exhibit in evidence. But do you intend anything of that sort, Mr. Ripley?"

"Why, that's as you say, doctor," replied the sophomore, quickly. "It's a matter of school discipline, and belongs to your province. Personally, I know that I would rather not have this matter go any further."

"I—I don't know what to do," confessed Dr. Thornton, in anxious perplexity. "In any event, before doing anything, I think I had better consult the superintendent and the Board of Education. Mr. Prescott, I will say, freely, that I am most loath to believe anything of this sort against you can be possible. There must be—must be—some—er explanation. I—I—don't want you to feel that I believe your guilt as yet assured. I—I——"

Here Dr. Thornton broke down, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. Almost unconsciously he passed the pin, which he was yet holding, to Fred Ripley.

"Lock the locker door, Mr. Prescott—and give me the key," requested the principal.

Dick passed over the key, then spoke, with more composure than might have been expected under the circumstances:

"Dr. Thornton, I am as innocent of any thieving as you yourself can be. Sooner or later the right of this will come out. Then you will realize that I didn't steal anything. I'll prove myself innocent yet, sir."

"I hope so, my boy, I—I—hope so," replied the principal.

As they ascended, Fred Ripley stepped aside to let the other two go first. He was afraid to have Dick Prescott behind him just then.

No sooner had the trio entered the general assembly room than it quickly dawned on all the students of both sexes that something was unusually wrong.

Dick's face was red as fire. Had he been guilty of the thefts, he might have been cooler about it all. Conscious innocence often puts on the appearance of guilt.

Somehow, Dick got to his seat. He picked up a book, mechanically, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in study.

"What's up?" whispered the fellow seated behind Fred.

Ripley turned enough to raise his eyebrows significantly and let his questioner see him do it. Instantly all seated near the lawyer's son became intensely curious.

Wondering glances strayed from over book-tops, even from the far corners of the big assembly room.

Then the curious glanced at Dr. Thornton so often that the much disturbed principal soon called another teacher to the desk and left the room.

At recess, Purcell, of the sophomore class, was found in charge at the door of Dick's old locker room. Ripley held his tongue until he was out in the school yard. Then he broke loose before those who would listen to him—and the number was large.

Dick & Co. had gathered by themselves in another corner of the yard. Here, however, they were soon joined by a small mob of the fellows, especially of the freshman class. Dick had his say. He didn't want to say much, but he related, in a straightforward way, what had happened.

"It's one of Fred Ripley's mean tricks," declared one of the freshmen. "Fred Ripley can't fool anyone. He put that pin in Dick's pocket himself."

"But two thefts—two things were missed last week, when Ripley wasn't at school at all," spoke one boy, in an undertone.

"Yes; that's the queer part of it," agreed another boy. "Ripley couldn't have had anything to do with those other cases."

This latter was the view that was occurring to Mr. Thornton, as he sat in the principal's room, poring and pondering over the whole distressing matter.

Thompson and the other football leaders came trooping over to Dick & Co. as soon as they heard the noise. Prescott was a hero with the football crowd. There was no use in telling them anything against their little freshie hero.

"Prescott, it would look foolish to talk much," declared Thompson, in a voice that was husky from real emotion. "Just give me your hand, old man!"

Dick took the proffered hand, pressing it hard and gratefully. Then the rest of the football squad pressed forward, each insisting on a hearty handshake.

"Nobody except those who want to, will stomach this silly charge against Dick," grunted Tom Reade to Dan Dalzell. "See how it's turning out? Our old pal and leader is holding a regular reception."

"'Scuse me," begged Dan, hastily. "There's Laura Bentley beckoning to me."

He hastened over to the girl's side. There were tiny drops in the corners of Laura's eyes that looked like suppressed tears.

"Dan," she said, coming straight to the point, "we have heard, of course. What a silly charge! See here, you pals of Dick's are going to walk home with him from school this noon?"

"Surest thing that ever happened in the world," declared Dalzell, fervently.

"Just so," nodded Laura. "Well, if you won't think it strange or forward, six of us girls want to walk along with you boys. That will be a hint that the freshman class, if not the whole H.S., passes a vote of confidence in Dick Prescott, the most straightforward fellow in the class or the school."

"Bully for you, Miss Bentley!" glowed Dan. "We shall be looking for you young ladies when school lets out."

When the outside bell rang for reassembling, such a guard of honor had chosen to gather around Dick, and march in with him, that it looked more like a triumphal procession.

"I feel better," sighed the boy, contentedly to himself, as he dropped into his seat. "What a bully thing a little confidence is!"

When school let out, Dick & Co., each partner escorting one of the freshman girls, strolled down the street. A good many more of the students chose to drop in behind them. Dick could say nothing, but his heart swelled with pride.

"The way to get famous and respected, nowadays, is to steal something, and to get found out," sneered Fred Ripley, bitterly, to Clara Deane.

Straight to his own door did some two score in all of the Gridley H.S. students escort Dick Prescott.

"Three cheers for Dick!" proposed some one.

"And for Dick and Co.!" shouted another voice.

The cheers were given with gusto. So much noise was made, in fact, that Mrs. Prescott came to open the door.

Something in his mother's face—a look of dread and alarm—spoiled the cheering for Dick. As soon as he could he got inside the house.

Little did the young freshman suspect the ordeal that awaited him here.

VIII. ONLY A "SUSPENDED" FRESHMAN NOW

"What's wrong mother? Have you heard——" the boy began, as soon as the door was closed.

"Yes, Richard."

"But, mother, I am inno——"

"Oh, Dick, of course you are! But this fearful suspicion is enough to kill one who loves you. Come! Your father is in the store. Dr. Thornton is upstairs. He and—and—a policeman.

"Policeman!" gasped Dick, paling instantly. "Do they mean to——"

"I don't know just what they mean, Dick I'm too dazed to guess," replied his mother. "But come upstairs."

As Dick entered their little parlor he was dimly aware that the High School principal was in the room. But the boy's whole gaze was centered on a quiet little man—Hemingway, the plain clothes man from the police station.

"Don't look scared to death, Prescott," urged Dr. Thornton, with a faint attempt at a smile. "We want to go through with a little formality—that is all. This matter at the High School has puzzled me to such a degree that I left early today and went to consult with Mr. Hemingway. Now, he thought it best that we come around here and have a talk with you."

"I can begin that talk best," pursued Hemingway, "by asking you, Prescott, whether you have anything that you want to say first-off?"

"I can't say anything," replied Dick, slowly, "except that I know nothing as to how any of the articles missed at school came to vanish. Ripley's pin was found in my pocket today, and I can only guess that some one—Ripley, perhaps dropped it in my pocket. Ripley has some feelings of enmity for me, anyway. We had a fight last week, and—" Dick could not repress a smile—"I thrashed him so that he was out of school for several days."

"But Ripley was not at school for the last few days, until today," broke in Dr. Thornton. "Now, a pin and a watch were missed while Ripley was not attending school."

"I know it, sir," Dick nodded. "As to those two articles I cannot offer even the ghost of an explanation."

"I don't like to accuse you of taking Ripley's scarf-pin, nor do I like to suspect him of putting up such a contemptible trick," explained Dr. Thornton, thoughtfully. "As far as the incident of the scarf-pin goes I am willing to admit that your explanation is just as likely to be good as is any other."

"Prescott, what did you do with the other pin and the watch?" shot in Policeman Hemingway, suddenly and compellingly.

It was well done. Had Dick been actually guilty, he might either have betrayed himself, or gone to stammering. But, as it was, he smiled, wanly, as he replied:

"I didn't do anything with them, Mr. Hemingway. I have just been explaining that."

"How much money have you about you at this moment?" demanded Hemingway.

"Two cents, I believe," laughed Dick, beginning to turn out his pockets. He produced the two copper coins, and held them out to the special officer.

"You may have more about you, then, somewhere," hinted the officer.

"Find it, then," begged Dick, frankly, as he stepped forward. "Search me. I'll allow it, and shall be glad to have you do it."

So Policeman Hemingway made the search, with the speed and skill of an expert.

"No; you've no more money about you," admitted the policeman. "You may have some put away, though."

"Where would it be likely to be?" Dick inquired.

"In your room, perhaps; in your baggage, or hidden behind books; oh, there's a lot of places where a boy can hide money in his own room."

"Come along and show me a few of them, then, won't you please?" challenged the young freshman.

Mrs. Prescott, who had been hovering near the doorway, gave a gasp of dismay. To her tortured soul this police investigation seemed to be the acme of disgrace. It all pointed to the arrest of her boy—to a long term in some jail or reformatory, most likely.

"Madame," asked the plain clothes man, stepping to the door, "will you give your full consent to my searching your son's room—in the presence of yourself and of Dr. Thornton, of course? I am obliged to ask your permission, for, without a search warrant I have no other legal right than that which you may give me."

"Of course you may search Richard's room," replied his mother, quickly. "But you'll be wasting your time, for you'll find nothing incriminating in my boy's room."

"Of course not, of course not," replied Hemingway, soothingly. "That is what we most want—not to find anything there. Will you lead the way, please? Prescott, you may come and see the search also."

So the four filed into the little room that served Dick as sleeping apartment, study-room, den, library and all. Hemingway moved quickly about, exploring the pockets of Dick's other clothing hanging there. He delved into, under and behind all of the few books there. This plain clothes man moved from place to place with a speed and certainty that spoke of his long years of practice in this sort of work.

"There's nothing left but the trunk, now," declared the policeman, bending over and trying the lock. "The key to this, Prescott!"

Dick produced the key. Hemingway fitted it in the lock, throwing up the lid. The trunk was but half filled, mostly with odds and ends, for Dick was not a boy of many possessions. After a few moments the policeman deftly produced, from the bottom, a gold watch. This he laid on the floor without a word, and continued the search. In another moment he had produced the jeweled pin that exactly answered the description of the one belonging to Mrs. Edwards.

Dick gave a gasp, then a low groan. A heart-broken sob welled up in Mrs. Prescott's throat. Dr. Thornton turned as white as chalk. Hemingway, an old actor in such things, did not show what he felt—if he really felt it at all.

"These are the missing articles, aren't they?" asked the policeman, straightening up and passing watch and pin to the High School principal.

"I believe them to be," nodded Dr. Thornton, brokenly.

Mrs. Prescott had staggered forward, weeping and throwing her arms around her son.

"O, Richard! Richard, my boy!" was all she could say.

"Mother, I know nothing about how those things came to be in my trunk," protested the boy, sturdily. After his first groan the young freshman, being all grit by nature, straightened up, feeling that he could look all the world in the eye. Only his mother's grief, and the knowledge that his father was soon to be hurt, appealed to the softer side of young Prescott's nature.

"Mother, I have not stolen anything," the boy said, more solemnly, after a pause. "I am your son. You believe me, don't you?"

"I'd stake my life on your innocence when you've given me your word!" declared that loyal woman.

"The chief said I was to take your instructions, Dr. Thornton," hinted Hemingway.

"Yes; I heard the order given," nodded the now gloomy High School principal.

"Shall I arrest young Prescott?"

At that paralyzing question Dick's mother did not cry out. She kissed her son, then went just past the open doorway, where she halted again.

"I hesitate about seeing any boy start from his first offense with a criminal record," replied the principal, slowly. "If I were convinced that this would be the last offense I certainly would not favor any prosecution. Prescott, could you promise——"

"Then you believe, sir, that I stole the things that you hold in your hand?" demanded the young freshman, steadily.

"I don't want to believe it," protested Dr. Thornton. "It seems wicked—monstrous—to believe that any fine, bright, capable boy like you can be——"

Dr. Thornton all but broke down. Then he added, in a hoarse whisper:

"—a thief."

"I'm not one," rejoined Dick. "And, not very far into the future lies the day when I'm going to prove it to you."

"If you can," replied Dr. Thornton, "you'll make me as happy as you do yourself and your parents."

"Let me have the watch and pin to turn over to the chief, doctor," requested Hemingway, and took the articles. "Now, for the boy——?"

"I'm not going to have him arrested," replied the principal, "unless the superintendent or the Board of Education so direct me."

From the other side of the doorway could be heard a stifled cry of delight.

"Then we may as well be going, doctor. You'll come to the station with me, won't you?"

"In one moment," replied the principal. He turned to Dick, sorrowfully holding out his hand.

"Prescott, whatever I may do will be the result of long and careful thought, or at the order of the superintendent or of the Board of Education. If you really are guilty, I hope you will pause, think and resolve, ere it is too late, to make a man of yourself hereafter. If you are innocent, I hope, with all my heart, that you will succeed in proving it. And to that end you may have any possible aid that I can give you. Goodbye, Prescott. Goodbye, madam! May peace be with you."

Half way down the stairs Dr. Thornton turned around to say:

"Of course, you quite comprehend, Prescott, that, pending official action by the school authorities, you must be suspended from the Gridley High School!"

As soon as the door had closed Dick half-tottered back into his room. He did not close the door, but crossed to the window, where he stood looking out upon a world that had darkened fearfully.

Then, without having heard a step, Dick Prescott felt his mother's arms enfold him.

IX. LAURA BENTLEY IS WIDE AWAKE

Suspended!

That did not mean expulsion, but it did mean that, until the school authorities had taken definite action on the case, young Prescott could not again attend H.S., or any other school under the control of the Board of Education.

The five other partners of Dick & Co. had faced the school defiantly when taking Dick's books from his desk and strapping them to bring home.

Dan Dalzell thrashed a sophomore for daring to make some allusion to Prescott's "thefts." Tom Reade tried to thrash another sophomore for a very similar offense, but Reade got whipped by a very small margin. That fact, however, did not discourage Reade. He had entered his protest, anyway.

Dave Darrin extracted apologies for remarks made, from three different sophomores. All of the partners were diligent in protecting and defending the reputation of their chief.

Every day the "Co." came to see Dick. They made it a point, too, to appear on the street with him. Not one member of the football team "went back on" the suspended freshman. All treated him with the utmost cordiality and faith wherever they met him. Laura Bentley and some of the other girls of Dick's class stood by him unwaveringly by chatting with the suspended freshman whenever and wherever they met him on the street.

"Pooh, old man, a fellow who has all the brains you displayed in making that football stroke doesn't need larceny as an aid to getting ahead in the world," was the way Frank Thompson put it.

"Thank you, Thompson. It's always good to have friends," smiled Dick, wistfully. "But, just now, I appreciate them more than ever."

"The football team and its best friends are giving Fred Ripley the dead cut," pursued Thompson. "And say, you know the junior class's dance comes off the night after tomorrow night. Juniors are always invited, but members of other classes have to depend on favor for invitations. We've fixed it so that Ripley couldn't get an invite. He tried, though. Now, Prescott, you'll receive an invitation in tomorrow morning's mail. Fix it to be there, old man. Do! You'll find yourself flanked by friends. If any fellow looks at you cross-eyed at the junior dance, the eleven will throw him out through a window!"

Dick looked more wistful than ever. He had never had many lessons in dancing, but he took to the art naturally. Had life been happier for him just then he would have been glad to take up the invitation. Besides, Dave Darrin had told him that Laura Bentley was invited and meant to go.

"Now, you'll come along, of course," asked Thompson, coaxingly.

"No-o-o," hesitated Dick, "I don't believe I shall."

"Oh, nonsense, old man!"

"I believe I'd rather not," replied Prescott, sadly; "though I'm tremendously grateful to those who want me to come and who would try to make it pleasant for me."

Thompson argued, but it was no use.

"Why, every one of your partners is going," said Frank. "Here comes Dave Darrin now. He'll tell you so."

"Nope," said Dave, with all the energy at his command. "We understand we're to be invited, and we'd give almost anything to go, but Dick & Co. don't go unless the Dick part of the firm is with us."

The junior dance came off, and was a good deal of a success in many ways. Only one of the ten boys of the freshman class who were invited attended. Eight girls of the same class were invited, but only two of them accepted. Laura Bentley decided, at the last moment, against attending.

Within ten days two important games came off between the Gridley H.S. and other crack high school teams. Gridley won both.

"It would be cheeky in me to go to the game, when I'm suspended—hardly a H.S. boy, in fact," Dick explained to his partners. "But you go.

"No, sir!" muttered Greg Holmes.

"Not if you feel that you can't go," protested Harry Hazelton. "Dick & Co. go together, or not at all."

Gridley H.S. won both games by the skin of their teeth.

"We can't succeed much longer without our mascots," Thompson declared impressively before all the members of Dick & Co. The six freshmen, walking along the street together had been rounded up and haled into the store where the football squad held its "club" meetings.

"Humph! I'd be a poor mascot for any body," muttered Dick. "I haven't been able to bring even myself good luck."

"You just come to a game once, all six of you," begged Ben Badger. "Then you'll see how we can pile up the score over the enemy! Don't let it get out of your heads that you're our real, sure-thing mascots. Why, if it hadn't been for you six youngsters we probably wouldn't be playing football any more this season."

Other members of the squad tried to ply their persuasive powers, but all in vain. Dick Prescott, though not breaking down or wilting under the suspicion that lay against him, felt convinced that it would be out of place for him to attend High School affairs while on the suspended list.

"Humph!" grunted Thomp. "The only thing I can see for us to do is to spend a lot of the Athletic Association's money in hiring a swell detective to come to town and find out who really did take the things at the old H.S. Then we'd have you with us again, Dick Prescott."

Though under such long suspension Dick was not going backward much in his studies. He had his books at home, and every forenoon he put in the time faithfully over them.

One of these November evenings Dick had the good fortune to have Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes up in his room with him. The other partners were at home studying.

Dick and his friends were talking rather dispiritedly, for the long suspension, without action, was beginning to wear on them all. Dick's case was now quietly before the Board of Education, but a result had not yet been reached by that slow-moving body.

Of course, the members of the Board had now more than a good idea that Dick & Co. had been behind that "dead ones" hoax; but the members of the Board were trying to do their duty in the suspension case, and tried not to let any other considerations weigh with them.

"We've all heard that old chestnut about the silver lining to the cloud," observed Dave, dejectedly. "If it's true, then silver seems to be mighty scarce these days."

"Richard! Ri-i-ichard!" called the elder Prescott, loudly, from the foot of the stairs that led up from the store.

"Yes, sir," cried Dick, bounding to the door and throwing it open.

"Laura Bentley has called us up on the 'phone. She says she wants to talk to you quicker'n lightning, whatever speed that may indicate. She adds, mysteriously, that 'it's the biggest thing that ever happened!'"

"Coming, sir!" cried Dick, bounding down the stairs, snatching at his cap and reefer as he started, though he could not have told why he picked up these garments. Dave and Greg, acting on some mysterious impulse, grabbed up their reefers and hats, and went down the stairs hot-foot after their chum and leader.

"Hullo!" called Dick, reaching the telephone instrument in the back room of the store. "Yes, Miss Bentley, this is Prescott."

"Then listen!" came the swiftly uttered words. Dick discovered that the girl was breathless with excitement and the largeness of her news. "Are you listening?"

"I'll catch every word," Dick replied.

"Well, I'm at Belle Meade's house. Belle and her mother are here. Mr. Meade is out. You know where the house is—corner of Clark Street and Stetson's Alley?"

"Yes; I know."

"Well, the room between the dining-room and the parlor is in darkness, and has been all evening. There's a window in that room that opens over the alley. The Meade apartment is on the second floor, you know. Well, Belle was passing that window—in the dark—and she heard voices down below in the alley. She wouldn't have thought anything of it, but she heard one of the speakers raise his voice and say, excitedly: 'See here, I did the trick, didn't I? Ain't Dick Prescott bounced out of school! Ain't he in disgrace! And he'll never get out of it!'"

"Then another voice broke in, in a lower tone, but Belle couldn't hear what was said. She's back in the dark by that open window now," Laura Bentley hurried on, breathlessly. "The two parties are still there, talking. It's hardly a minute's run from where you are. Can't you get some one in a hurry, run up here and jump on the parties? Please do, Dick! It'll be the means of clearing up this whole awful business!"

"Won't I, though?" answered Dick, breathlessly, into the 'phone. "I have two chums here now. We'll be there like greased lightning—and, oh, Miss Bentley, thank you!"

Neither Dave nor Greg needed to ask any questions, for both had stood close to the receiver, drinking in every word. Now they shot out through the front of the store with a speed and turbulence that made studious Mr. Prescott gasp with amazement.

"Careful, now, fellows!" warned Dick a few moments later. "We want to hear, as well as catch! Softly does it."

Well practiced in running, not one of the three freshmen was out of breath by the time that they reached the head of Stetson's Alley.

Just before turning the corner at the head of the alley, Dick and his freshmen chums halted to listen and reconnoiter.

Peeping cautiously around the corner, Dick, Greg and Dave made out dimly one figure well down the alley. There was not light enough there to recognize the fellow. And the three boys could make out some one past this first fellow, but the second individual stood well in the dark shadow of the delivery doorway of a store.

"Let's see if we can't creep up a little nearer," whispered Dick Prescott, softly.

"They may see us coming," warned Dave.

"If they do, we'll just make a jump in and nab them anyway," Dick rejoined. "Remember the main game—capture!"

Cautiously, a foot at a time, and in Indian file, the three freshmen stole down the dark alleyway. Then Dick halted, passing back a nudge that Dave Darrin passed on to Greg Holmes.

"Now, ye needn't think ye're goin' to renig," warned the fellow who was nearer to the boys. "I done the whole job against Prescott, and I done it as neat as the next one. Why, you never even thought of the trick of slipping that watch and pin into Prescott's trunk, did ye? That was my brains. I supplied the brains, an' you've got to raise the cash to pay for 'em! How did I do that trick of slippin' the watch an' pin into Prescott's trunk! Oh, yes! Of course, ye wanter know. Well, I'll tell ye when ye hand me the rest o' the money for doin' the whole trick—then I'll tell ye."

Something in a very low whisper came, in response, from the second party who was invisible to the prowling freshmen.

Dick Prescott felt that there was no need of prolonging this scene. He had heard enough.

"Now, rush 'em! Grab 'em—and hold 'em!" shouted Dick, suddenly.

As the three freshmen shot forward into the darkness something that sounded like an almost hysterical cheer in girls' voices came from the open, dark window overhead.

But neither Dick nor his chums paused to give thought to that at this important moment.

The unknown who had been doing most of the talking wheeled with an oath, making a frantic dash to get out of the alley and onto the street.

But Dick shot fairly past him, dodging slightly, and made a bound for the second party to this wicked conference.

Just beyond the doorway in which this second party had keen standing was a yard that furnished a second means of exit from the alley.

It was this second party to the talk that Dick was after. He left the other fugitive to his two active, quick-witted chums. They were swift to understand, and grappled, together, with the rascal fleeing for the street.

The three went down in a scuffling, fighting heap.

Like a flash the fellow that Dick was after seemed to melt into the adjoining back yard. Prescott, in trying to get in after him in record time, fell flat to the ground just inside the yard.

Yet, as he went down Prescott grabbed one of his fugitive's trouser legs near the ankle.

"Let go!" hissed the other, in too low a voice to be recognized.

Before Dick, holding on grimly, had time to look upward, the wretch lifted a cane, bringing it down on Dick's head with ugly force.

X. TIP SCAMMON TALKS—BUT NOT ENOUGH

If that ugly blow hadn't proved a glancing one, Dick Prescott might have been for a long siege of brain fever.

As it was, he was slightly stunned for the moment.

By the time he could leap up and look about him, rather dizzily, his late assailant had made a clean escape.

"No time to waste on a fellow who's got away," quoth Dick.

He staggered slightly, at first, as he hurried from the yard back into the alleyway.

"Now, you quiet down!" commanded Dave Darrin hoarsely. "No more from you, Mr. Thug!"

"Lemme go, or it'll be worse for ye!" threatened a harsh voice that, nevertheless, had a whine in it.

"What use to let you go, Tip Scammon?" demanded Darrin. "We know you, and the police would pick you up again in an hour."

"Lemme go, and keep yer mouth shut," whined the fellow. "If ye don't, ye'll be sorry. If ye do lemme go, I'll pay ye for the accommodation."

"Yes," retorted Dave, scornfully. "You'd pay us, I suppose, with money you picked up in some way resembling the trick you played on Dick Prescott."

"Well, money's money, ain't it?" demanded Tip, skeptically.

"Some kinds of money are worse that dirt," growled Greg Holmes.

This was the conversation, swiftly carried on, that Dick heard as he stepped back to his friends.

Scammon was lying on his back on the ground, with Dave seated across his chest. Greg bent back the wretch's head, holding a short club that the two freshmen had taken away from Tip in the scuffle.

"Where's the other one, Dick?" gasped Dave, as he saw young Prescott coming back alone.

"He got away," muttered Dick. "He hit me over the head, and stunned me for a moment, or I'd be holding onto him yet."

"Who was he?" demanded Greg, breathlessly.

"I don't know," Dick admitted. "I'd give a small part of the earth to know and be sure about it."

That admission of ignorance was a most unfortunate one. Tip Scammon heard it, and the fellow grinned inwardly over knowing that his late companion had not been recognized.

"What are we going to do with this fellow, Dick?" asked Dave.

"I'm wondering whether he ought to be arrested or not," Dick replied. "Fellows, I feel mighty sorry for Tip's father."

And well might all three feel sorry. So, far as was known, this crime against Dick was the first offense Tip had committed against the law. He was a tough character, and regarded as one of the worse than worthless young men of Gridley. Tip was a handy fellow, a jack-of-all-trades, with several at which he might have made an honest living—but he wouldn't. Yet Tip's father was old John Scammon, the highly respected janitor at the High School, where he had served for some forty years.

"I say, fellows, I wonder if we can let Tip go—now that we know the whole story?" breathed Dick.

"Say, I'll make it worth yer while," proposed Tip, eagerly.

"How about the law?" asked Dave Darrin, seriously. "Have we any right to let the fellow go, when we know he has committed a serious crime?"

"I don't know," replied Prescott. "All I'm thinking of is good, honest old John Scammon."

"It'd break me old man's heart—sure it would," put in Tip, cunningly.

At the first cry from Belle and Laura Bentley, however Mrs. Meade, who was also in the secret, had hurried down into Clark Street. Just as it happened she had espied a policeman less than a block away. That officer, posted by Mrs. Meade, now came hurrying down the alleyway.

"Oho! Tip, is it?" demanded the policeman. "Let him up, Darrin. I can handle him. Now, then, what's the row about?"

Thereupon Dick and his chums had to tell the story. There was no way out of it. Officer Connors heard a little of it, then decided:

"The station house is the place to tell the rest of this. Come along, Tip. And you youngsters trail along behind."

Though the station house was not far away, a good-sized crowd was trailing along by the time they reached the business stand of the police. Tip was hustled in through the doorway, the three young freshmen following. Leaning over the railing, smoking and chatting with the sergeant at the desk, was plain clothes man Hemingway.

"Hullo," muttered that latter officer, "what's this?"

"A slice out of one of your cases, I guess, Hemingway, from what I've heard," laughed Connors. "According to these boys, Tip is the fellow who knows the inside game of the High School thefts."

"Let's have Scammon in the back room, then," urged Hemingway, leading the way to the guard room. The sergeant, also, followed, after summoning a reserve policeman to the desk.

Then followed a sharp grilling by the keen, astute Hemingway. Dick and his chums told what they had heard Tip say before they pounced upon him. Tip, who was a round-headed, short, square-shouldered fellow of twenty-four, possessed more of the cunning of the prize ring than the cleverness of the keen thief.

"I've been caught with the packages on me," he admitted, bluntly, and with some show of bravado. "I guess I can't get outer delivering 'em."

"Then you stole that pin and the gold watch from the locker at the High School?" demanded Hemingway, swiftly.

"Yep."

"How did you get into the locker room?" shot out Hemingway.

"Guess!" leered Tip, exhibiting some cheap bravado.

"Maybe I can find the answer in your clothes," retorted the plain clothes man. "Stand still."

The search resulted in the finding of about ten dollars, a knife, and three queer-looking implements that Hemingway instantly declared to be pick-locks.

"You used these tools, and slipped the lock, did you?" asked Hemingway.

"Didn't have to," grinned Tip.

"Took an impression of the lock, then, and made a key, did you?"

"Right-o," drawled Tip.

"I'll look into your lodgings," muttered Hemingway. "Probably I'll find you've got a good outfit for that kind of work. I remember you used to work for a locksmith."

Tip, however, was not scared. He knew that there was nothing at his lodgings to betray him.

"Then you used these picklocks to open Prescott's locked trunk with?" was Hemingway's next question.

"'Fraid I did," leered Tip.

"What time of the day did you get into the Prescott flat?"

"'Bout ten o'clock, morning of the same day ye went through Prescott's trunk an' found the goods there."

"The same goods that you placed in the trunk, Tip, after breaking into the Prescott flat while Mr. and Mrs. Prescott were down in their store and young Prescott was at the High School?"

"That's right," Tip grinned.

"You picked the lock of young Prescott's trunk, stowed the watch and pin away in there, and then sprung the lock again?"

"Why, say, ye muster seen me," declared Scammon, admiringly.

"The week before that day you must have been at the High School, helping your father, especially in the basement during session hours."

"I sure was," Tip admitted. "I had ter, didn't I, to have a chance ter get inter the locker room?"

"What did you say the name of the fellow was who hired you to do the trick?" swiftly demanded Hemingway, changing the tack.

"I b'lieve I didn't say," responded Tip, giving a wink that included all present.

"Tell me now, then."

"Not if ye was to hang me for refusing," declared Scammon, with sudden obstinacy.

"Yet you've told us everything else," argued the plain clothes man.

"Might jest as well tell ye everything else," retorted Tip. "Didn't these High School kids find the packages on me?"

"Then tell us who the chap was that you were talking with tonight."

"Not fer anything ye could give me," asserted Tip Scammon, with great promptness.

"Oh, well, then," returned Hemingway, with affected carelessness, "Prescott can tell us the name of the chap he grappled with in that back yard."

"Yep! Let young Prescott tell," agreed Tip with great cheerfulness. That was as far as the police could get with the prisoner. He readily admitted all that was known, and he had even gone so far as to tell how he had stolen the watch and the pin, and how he had secreted them in Dick's trunk, but beyond that the fellow would not go further.

"Did you have anything to do with placing Ripley's pin in Prescott's pocket?" questioned Hemingway.

"Nope," declared Tip, in all apparent candor.

"Know anything about that?"

"Nope."

"Then how did you know that that particular morning was the right morning to hide the other two stolen articles in Prescott's trunk?"

"I heard, on the street, what was happenin'," declared Tip, confidently. "So I knew 'twas the right time ter do the rest of the trick."

At last Hemingway gave up the attempt to learn the name of the party with whom Tip had been talking in Stetson's Alley on this night. Then Tip was led away to a cell.

"Come on, fellows," muttered Dick to his chums. "Since Tip is under arrest, anyway, and has confessed, and since the whole thing is bound to become public, I want to run down to 'The Blade' office, find Len Spencer, and send him up here to get the whole, straight story. With this yarn printed I can go back to school in the morning!"

"Now, see here, Dick," expostulated Dave Darrin, as the three chums hurried along the street, "in the station house you told the police you didn't get a look at the other fellow's face."

"Well, that was straight," Prescott asserted.

"Do you mean to say you don't know who the fellow was—you really don't?" persisted Dave Darrin.

"I don't know," Dick declared flatly.

"You've a suspicion, just the same," asserted Greg Holmes, dryly.

"Possibly."

"Who was it, then?" coaxed Greg Holmes.

"Was it Fred Ripley?" shot out Dave Darrin.

"Will you fellows keep a secret, on your solemn honor, if I tell you one?" Dick questioned.

Dave and Greg both promised.

"Well, then," Prescott admitted, "I'm convinced in my own mind that it was Fred Ripley that I had hold of for an instant tonight. But I didn't see his face, and I can't prove it. That's why I'm not going to tell about it. But this fellow wore lavender striped trousers, just like a pair of Fred's. There is just a chance or two in a thousand that it wasn't Ripley—and I'm not going to throw it all over on him when I can't prove it. Fellows, I know just what it feels like to be under suspicion when you really didn't do a thing. It hurts—awfully!"

XI. THE WELCOME WITH A BIG "W"

Ben Badger sat perched aloft among the bare, spreading branches of a giant maple near one corner of the school grounds. The maple stood at the curbing of the sidewalk.

Down below stood nearly a hundred High School boys of Gridley.

That Ben was on sentry duty was apparent from the eager looks that those below frequently cast up at him. At times, too, the general impatience sought relief in questions hurled at Ben.

Finally, from the lookout aloft came down the rousing hail:

"Here he comes! fellows! Here he comes! No—here they come! The whole crowd—Dick & Co.!"

A flutter passed through the crowd below, vet not one of the Gridley H.S. boys stirred from the ranks just within the school yard gate.

Back on the main steps of the High School building nearly three score of the young ladies were irregularly grouped. They were silent, but expectant.

For "The Blade" had been read in many a Gridley home that morning. The news had traveled fast over Gridley. Though the paper had contained no announcement that Prescott would return to school, every High School boy and girl had felt sure of that.

Down the street, three abreast, came Dick & Co., with proud, firm stride. Very likely the partners were even more exultant than was Prescott himself.

Then the freshman sextette came in full sight from the gateway.

"Who's this?" yelled Ben Badger in his loudest voice.

From the crowded tanks below welled up the chorus:

"Dick & Co.! Dick & Co.! Good old Dick! Bully old Co.!"

Prescott and his chums halted, thunderstruck by the volume and force of that unexpected chorus.

Immediately on top of it rolled out lustily the complicated High School yell, given with a vim never before heard off the football field.

And then:

"What's the matter with Dick Prescott?" demanded Ben Badger, in stentorian tones.

From one half of the H.S. boys came the roaring response:

"He's the whole cheese."

Then, from the other half:

"——for a freshman!"

Dick & Co. recovering from their amazement, were coming on again now. Young Prescott's heart thumped hard. He was no popularity-chaser, but only the fellow who has been down hard, for a while, knows how good it is to be up once more.

As Dick neared the gate Ben Badger dropped down out of the bare maple tree, for Ben had yet other duties on the reception committee.

He and Frank Thompson suddenly snatched Dick Prescott out of the ranks of his chums, and hoisted him aloft. This these two husky first classmen were well able to do.

Across the school yard they started with him, while the rest of the fellows followed, giving voice to the High School yell:

"T-E-R-R-O-R-S! Wa-ar! Fam-ine! Pes-ti-lence! That's us! That's us! G-R-I-D-L-E-Y H.S.! Rah! rah! rah! rah! Gri-i-id-ley!"

The girls grouped on the steps parted, letting the leaders and followers through.

With the rush as of an army the excited youngsters bore Dick Prescott up a flight of stairs. Half a dozen of the fellows sprang ahead of Badger and Thompson, throwing open one of the doors of the general assembly room.

Again the High School yell broke loose, sounding, in that confined space, as though it must jar the rafters loose.

Dr. Thornton had risen from his chair behind the desk. It was before coming-in-hour, and there was no rule that commanded quietude before the bell rang. Yet such a din had never before been heard in the room.

But just then Dr. Thornton caught sight of red-faced, happy-looking Dick Prescott on the shoulders of Badger and Thompson. Then the principal laughed in sheer good humor.

Wheeling, Badger and Thompson carried Dick straight up to the platform, where they deposited their human burden at the edge.

"Welcome to our city!" yelled Badger, sonorously.

"Mr. Prescott," greeted Dr. Thornton, holding out his hand, "I am heartily glad to see you back here."

"No more pleased, sir, than I am to be here," returned the young freshman. "And I must thank you, doctor, for the promptness with which you sent the note around to me informing me that the suspension had automatically ended."

While the cheering was going on out in the yard, and while Dick was being carried in triumph into the building, Fred Ripley and Clara Deane had just turned in out of a side street and come within view of the demonstration.

"They're shouting out something about Prescott," murmured Clara.

"Oh, I suppose the mucker has been allowed to sneak back into school," returned Ripley, in disgust.

"It's a shame to allow that class of young fellows in a high school," declared Miss Deane. "If a higher education is necessary for such people, they ought to be sent to a special school of their own."

"If Gridley H.S. goes on being cheapened I shall go to some good private prep. school somewhere," hinted Fred.

"That would be a splendid idea," glowed Clara. "I wouldn't mind going to some good seminary myself."

"If we do, let us hope we can find a town that will contain both schools," suggested Fred, with an attempt at gallantry. "For that matter, Clara, there are co-ed private schools, you know."

"I don't want to go to one," retorted Miss Deane, promptly. "Co-ed schools are just like co-ed colleges. The boys may have a good enough time, but the co-ed girls are shoved into the background. Co-ed boys pretend they don't know that the co-ed girls are alive. The High School is better, for a girl, than any co-ed private school, for in the High School girls are treated on an even footing with boys."

"We'll both of us keep that prep. school idea in mind, though," proposed Ripley, just before the pair entered the school building.

By the time that this exclusive pair entered the general assembly room the scene before them was none too pleasing. The congratulatory crowd being too large for Dick alone, his five partners were holding separate little receptions for groups, relating how Dick, Dave and Greg had captured Tip Scammon. Such speculation there was as to who Tip's unrecognized companion could have been the night before. As Fred stepped into the big room he was conscious of many unfriendly glances that were sent in his direction.

As early as possible Dick Prescott sought out Laura Bentley and Bell Meade, and to them he expressed his heartiest thanks for the splendid aid they had given him toward this present happy moment.

So great was the clamor, in fact, that, when the gong outside struck the "minute-call" at 7.59, no one in the assembly room seemed to hear it. Then came the jingling of the assembly bell in the big room. A murmur of surprise ran around, for time had passed rapidly since Dick's appearance. In another moment the only sound was that of quiet footfalls as the young ladies and gentlemen of the Gridley H.S. moved to their seats. In a few seconds more only the ticking of the big clock was heard.

XII. DICK & CO. GIVE FOOTBALL A NEW BOOST

By recess the feeling had quieted down. Dick Prescott was only a freshman, but it is safe to say that he was the most popular freshman who had ever "happened" at Gridley H.S.

However, the noisy spirit of welcome had spent itself Dick & Co. were given a chance to go away quietly by themselves and talk over their own affairs.

Fred Ripley appeared to be the only unhappy boy in the lot. He kept to himself a good deal, and the scowl on his face threatened to become chronic.

Recess was nearly up when Thomp and Captain Sam Edgeworth, of the eleven, approached Dick & Co. A nod from Edgeworth drew Prescott away from his chums.

"Prescott, as you know, we don't usually allow freshmen to mix much with us in the athletic line. But the fellows feel that you are a big exception. You couldn't possibly make the team this year, of course, but we well, we thought you might like a bit of the social end of the squad. We thought you might like to come around to our headquarters and see us drill and hear our talk of the game. Would it interest you any?"

"Would it?" glowed Dick. "Why, as much as it would please a ragpicker to be carried off to a palace to live!"

"Do you care to come around and see us this afternoon?" pursued Captain Sam. "Say three o'clock."

"I'd be delighted."

"Then come around and see us, Prescott. Maybe you'll be interested in something that you see and hear."

"I wonder——" began Dick, wistfully.

"Well, what?" asked Thomp.

"Could you possibly include my chums in that invitation? They're all mightily interested."

"Yes," nodded Thompson, "they're interested, and they all helped you to spring that trick on the Board of Education. It's more than half likely that we owe the continuance of football this season to Dick & Co."

"Bring your friends along, then," agreed Captain Sam Edgeworth, though he solemnly hoped, under his breath, that he wasn't establishing a fearful precedent by showing such wholesale cordiality to the usually despised freshmen.

"We'll use all six of you as our mascots," laughed Thomp.

"And er—er—" began Dick, a bit diffidently, "we have something that we've been talking over, and we want to suggest to you—if you won't think us all too eternally fresh."

"Anyway, the idea'll have to keep," muttered Edgeworth, as the gong clanged out. "There goes the end of recess."

The long lines were quickly filing in at two entrances? and the work of the school day was on again.

It was barely a quarter of three when Dick & Co. walking two-and-two, came in sight of the otherwise unoccupied store that formed the football headquarters.

"We're too early," muttered Prescott, consulting his watch. "We'll have to take a walk around a few blocks yet, fellows."

"Why?" Dan Dalzell wanted to know. "What difference does a matter of a few minutes make?"

"Haven't you had it rubbed into you enough that you're only a measly freshman?" laughed Dick. "And don't you know a freshman is called a freshman only because he can't dare to do anything that looks the least little bit fresh? From an upper classman's point of view we've had a thumping big privilege accorded us, and we don't want to spoil it by running it into the ground. So I vote for a walk that will make us at least two minutes late going into the football headquarters."

"My vote goes with yours," nodded Dave Darrin.

The good sense of it appealed to all the chums, so they strolled away again, and came back three minutes late, Outside the door they halted. Some of the awe of the conscious freshman came upon two or three of the chums.

"You go in first, Dick," urged Tom Reade.

"It was you who got the invite, anyway," hinted Greg Holmes.

Laughing quietly Dick turned the knob of the door. He went in bravely enough, but some of his chums followed rather sheepishly.

Fred Ripley, who had dropped in five minutes before, saw them at once, and scowled.

"'Ware freshmen!" he called, rather loudly.

Nearly all the members of the regular and sub teams were present. Most of them were going through an Indian club drill at the further end of the room. At Fred's cry several of them turned around sharply.

"Oh, that's all right," called out Edgeworth. "These particular freshmen are privileged. Welcome, Dick & Co.!"

"Privileged? Welcome?" gasped Ripley, in a tone of huge disgust. "What on earth is the High School coming to these days?"

"If you don't like to see them here, Ripley," broke in Thompson, "you know——"

"Oh, well!" growled Fred, with a shrug of his shoulders. Then, disdaining to look at Dick & Co., this stickler for upper class exclusiveness turned and stalked out of the store, closing the door after him with a bang.

For some minutes Dick and his chums stood quietly against the wall at one side of the big, almost bare room. Then Edgeworth called out:

"Now, fellows, we've had enough of indoor work. We'll take a brief rest. After that we'll go over to the field and practice tackles and formations until dark."

Released from the drills Thomp came over to shake hands with the freshmen visitors. Edgeworth presently strolled over, and a few others.

"By the way, captain," spoke up Thompson, finally, "I think Prescott told us that the mighty freshmen intellects of Dick & Co. had been trying out their brains in the effort to get up some new football stunts."

"That's so," nodded Sam.

"Have we time to listen to them?"

"Yes," decided the football captain; "if it doesn't take them too long to explain."

Ben Badger kicked forward an empty packing case.

"Here's a platform, Prescott. Get up and orate!" he called.

Dick laughingly held back from the packing case until Badger and Thomp lifted him bodily and stood him on top of the box.

"And cut it short, and make it practical," admonished Ted Butler, "or take the dire consequences!"

"Why, I don't know, gentlemen of the football team, that it's much of an idea," Dick began, "but my chums and I have been thinking over the complaint of the Athletics Committee that you haven't as much money, this season, as you'd like."

"Money?" echoed one. "Now, you're whispering. Whoop!"

"Money—the root of all evil!" shouted another.

"Get wicked!" adjured a third.

"What my friends and I had to suggest," Dick went on, "was that, as we understand it, the folks of the town don't contribute much cash for upholding the fame of High School athletics."

"The School Alumni Association does pretty well in that line," replied Edgeworth. "The public in general do pretty well by buying tickets rather liberally to our games. It's the expenses that are the great trouble. You see, Prescott, instead of maintaining one team, we really have to support two, for the subs are necessary in order to give us practice. Then the coach's expenses are heavy. Now, the Alumni Association owns our athletic field, but a lot of lumber and carpenter work is needed there every year, making repairs and putting in improvements. Then, when we play high school teams at a distance from here the railroad expenses eat up enormously."

"And we have to play mostly teams at a good distance from here," laughed Ben Badger, "for we've played the nearby elevens time and again, and Gridley has eaten up the other fellows in such big gulps that we have to get on dates, these days, with teams so far away that they don't know much about us."

"But there's plenty of money in the town," replied Dick. "The business men have some of it. The wealthy people have a lot of it, too. It is a Gridley brag that the people of this city are public spirited to the last gasp. Now, if you can get public spirit and money on good speaking terms there wouldn't need to be any lack of funds for High School athletics."

"All right," nodded Edgeworth, trying to conceal a slight impatience "But how are you going to introduce public spirit effectively to money?"

"That's what we freshmen have been wondering," Dick replied. "Now, every student in the Gridley H.S.—boy students and girl students—gets a share of the reflected glory that comes from the work of one of the best high school elevens in the United States. So, as we see it, the whole student body should get together in the raising of funds. And when I say 'funds,' I don't mean pennies or dimes."

"This is becoming interesting," called out Ben Badger.

"That my chums and I would suggest," Dick continued, "is that the whole student body of Gridley H.S. be enlisted, and sent out to scour the town, holding, out a subscription paper that is properly worded at the top."

"How worded?" demanded Ted Butler.

"My freshmen chums and I have prepared a draft of the paper. May I read what we suggest as a heading for the paper?"

"Hear! Hear!" cried a dozen.

"Thank you," Prescott acknowledged, gratefully. Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, he read as follows:

"'Gridley is justly proud of its public spirit, and rejoices in having the best in several lines. Few if any cities in the United States possess a High School football team that can down the eleven from Gridley H.S. We are proud of our High School, and as proud of its reputation in athletics. We believe that Gridley prominence in athletics should be fostered in every way, and we know that real athletics cost money—a lot of it! We, The Undersigned, therefore subscribe to the Athletic Committee of Gridley H.S. the amounts of public spirit set down opposite our names in dollars.'"

After Dick Prescott had ceased reading it took nearly a full minute for the cleverness of this direct appeal to local pride to strike home in the minds of the football squad. Then loud applause broke loose.

"Freshie!" roared Sam Edgeworth, over the din, "that's genius, compressed into a hundred words!"

"It's O.K.!" declared Thompson, with heavy emphasis.

"Bully!" roared Ben Badger.

Then one pessimist was heard from:

"It's good, but it takes something mighty good to force people to part with their own cash."

"Don't you think that, with every H.S. boy and girl going around with the paper, it will force subscriptions?" Dick inquired.

"Oh, well," granted the pessimist, "I believe it will cost enough money out of the public to pay all the cost of printing the subscription papers anyway."

"If we didn't need that kicker on the team, we'd throw him out of here," laughed Sam Edgeworth, good-naturedly.

Then the matter was put to informal vote, and it was decided to ask the permission of the Athletic Committee to put through the scheme presented by Dick & Co.

"And now it's time to be off for the field," proclaimed Sam Edgeworth, with emphasis. Coach Morton will be waiting for us, and he isn't the man who enjoys being kept waiting."

"Come along with us, Dick & Co.," called Thompson. "You'll have a chance to see whether you approve of our way of handling the game."

So Dick and his partners went along. Though they could only stand at the edge of the field and look on, yet that was rare fun, for no other freshmen were on the same side of the fence.

As all six of the boys knew considerable about the theories and rules of football, and as all of them watched closely the plays between Gridley H.S. and the subs, they soon saw the reason why Gridley had one of the most formidable High School teams in the country.

"Oh, for the day when we can try to make the team!" uttered Dick Prescott, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The fund-raising scheme offered by Dick & Co. went before the Athletic Committee that same evening. It was accepted, as Prescott and Darrin, hanging about outside the H.S. building, learned an hour later.

In three days more the subscription papers had been printed and were distributed. Every boy and girl in the school received one, with instructions to bring it back, "filled out"—or take the consequences.

Then the canvassing began.

Would it work? Dick & Co. felt that their own reputations hung in the balance. And it was bound to be the case that some of the students, though they took the papers, did a lot of prompt "kicking" about it.

Would it "work"?

XIII. "THE OATH OF THE DUB"

For a full week the boys and girls of Gridley H.S. scoured the town, trying their fortune everywhere that money was supposed to lurk.

The great Thanksgiving game was coming on. Gridley was to play the second team of Cobber University. This second team from Cobber had beaten every high school team it had tackled for the two preceding years.

Gridley, in this present year, had not met with a single defeat in a total of nine games thus far played. In six of the games the opponents had not scored at all.

But could Cobber Second be beaten?

The Cobber eleven was one of the finest in the country. Even the second team was considered a "terror," as its record of unbroken victories for two years testified.

So much awe, in fact, did Cobber Second inspire among the high school teams that Gridley was the only outfit to be found that dared take up the proposition of a Thanksgiving Day game with the college men.

"Gridley can't win!" the pessimists predicted.

Even the heartiest well-wishers of Gridley H.S. felt, mournfully, that too big a contract had been undertaken.

Dick & Co., however, under the inspiring influence of their leader, were all to the hopeful.

"We'll win," Dick proclaimed, "because Gridley needs the game. When Gridley folks go after anything they won't take 'no' for an answer. That's the spirit of the town, and the High School is worthy of all the traditions of the town."

"Talk's cheap, and brag's a good dog!" sneered Ripley.

Three sophomores who overheard the remark promptly "bagged" Fred and threw him over the school yard fence.

"Come back with any more of that," warned one of the hazers, "and we'll scour your intellect at the town pump."

Being a freshman, Prescott didn't say too much. Neither did his chums. Yet what they did say was bright and hopeful. Their spirit began to soak through the student body.

"You see, gentlemen," Coach Morton warned the football squad one morning at recess, "you've got to win. The school believes you can do it, and the town is beginning to believe it. If you lose to Cobber Second you'll forfeit the respect of all the thousands of Gridley folks who are now saying nice things about you."

"Write it down," begged Thompson. "We're going to beat Cobber Second off the gridiron."

"Good!" cheered Mr. Morton. "That's the talk. And be sure you live up to it!"

"We've got to live up to it," asserted Thomp, solemnly.

"Right-o!" came the enthusiastic approval from as many members of the student body as could crowd within easy hearing. The girls were all there, too, for in these days the girls were as much excited as others over the prospects of winning.

"Shall I tell coach and students, Cap?" called Thomp to Edgeworth.

"It won't do any harm," nodded Sam. "Confession will make our deed more binding."

"What deed?" demanded Coach Morton, scenting some mystery that he was not yet in on.

"Why, you see, sir," proclaimed Thomp, "every member of the team, and every sub who stands any show to get into the game, has taken the oath of the dub."

"'The oath of the dub'?" repeated Sub-master Morton. "That's a new one on me.

"It's a new one on us all," admitted Thompson, gravely. "We've taken the oath, but it's so dreadful that most of us shivered when it came our turn to recite the patter—the ritual, I mean."

"What is this 'oath of the dub'?" asked the coach.

"It's fearful," shivered Thomp. "Any of you fellows feel better able to explain?"

He glanced around him at the other visible members and subs of the school eleven, but they shook their heads and shrank back.

"Well, then, I'll have to tell you myself," conceded Thomp, with an air of gloom. "It's a fearful thing. Yet, as I've been through with it once, one more time can't hurt me—much."

Thomp made an eloquent pause. Then, reaching his right hand aloft, his eyes turned toward the sky, he recited, in a deep bass voice:

"I have pledged my honor, as a gridiron specialist, that Gridley H.S. shall lug away all the points of the game from Cobber Second. If we fail, then may everyone who espies me mutter: 'There goes a dub!' May the word 'dub' haunt me in my waking hours, and pursue me, mounted on the nightmares of slumber! May my best friends ever afterward refer to me only as a 'dub.' For if I fail the school, then am I truly a 'dub,' and there is no help for me. If I fail, then may I never, so long as life lasts, be permitted to lose sight of the patent fact that I am a 'dub'! So help me Bob!"

A roar of laughter and approval went up from all who heard. Coach Morton tried hard to preserve his gravity, but his sides shook, and his face reddened from the effort. At last he broke loose. When he could control his voice Mr. Morton demanded:

"What genius of the first class invented the 'oath of the dub'?"

"It wasn't a senior, sir," Thomp confessed.

"What junior, then?"

"Not a junior, either."

"Who, then?" insisted the submaster.

"Tell him, Sam."

"That oath, Mr. Morton, required and received the concerted brainpower of——"

"Dick & Co.!" shouted the football squad in chorus.

A good-natured riot followed.

"Dick & Co. will soon get the notion that they're the whole High School," growled Fred Ripley to Purcell.

"They are a big feature of the school," laughed Purcell. "You're about the only one, Fred, who hasn't discovered it. Rub your eyes, man, and take another look."

"Bah!" muttered Ripley, turning away. Just then the gong clanged the end of recess.

"Now, that 'the oath of the dub' has been given out," suggested Dick Prescott to his chums, after school, "we ought to find Len Spencer and give it to him. He'll print it in tomorrow's 'Blade' and that will send local pride soaring. That'll help a whole lot to success with the subscription papers."

After the papers had been in circulation a week the Athletics Committee held an evening session, in the room of the Superintendent of Schools, in the H.S. building.

By eight o'clock nearly a hundred and fifty of the boys and girls had assembled. More came in later.

The subscription papers, and the amounts for which they called, were turned in to Coach Morton. It was soon noticed that many of the subscriptions had been paid by check.

Laura Bentley was the first to turn in a paper.

"Twenty dollars," she announced, quietly, though with evident pride.

"Eleven dollars," announced Belle Meade.

After a good many of the girls had made accounting they boys had a brief chance.

When it came Dick Prescott's turn he spoke so quietly that those nearest him thought he said six dollars.

"Sixty dollars?" repeated Mr. Morton, more distinctly. "The best offering yet."

"I've one more," added Prescott, in the same low voice.

"Then speak up more loudly," directed the submaster. "There are a lot of young people here who want to hear."

"Here," continued Dick, handing in another paper, "is a communication signed by the members of the city's Common Council. They signed as individuals. They agree to hire the Gridley Military Band, of twenty-eight pieces, to be on hand at the Thanksgiving game and to play for our High School eleven."

None of Dick's partners had secured less than twenty-five dollars.

When all the subscriptions had been turned in, and the amount footed up by Coach Morton, that gentleman announced, in tones that betrayed excitement:

"The total subscriptions amount to nineteen hundred and sixty-eight dollars. That will put us on a fine footing for this year, and leave a good balance over for next year!"

Then the enthusiasm broke loose in earnest. Two score of fans turned, at once, to find Dick & Co., who had started the scheme. But Dick & Co. had quietly vanished.

Before it adjourned that night, the Athletics Committee, with the help of Captain Sam Edgeworth, found one effective way of rewarding those who had conceived this highly successful subscription campaign.

Dick Prescott was appointed cheer-master for the great Thanksgiving Day game. More, Dick was to name any one of his chums as assistant cheer-master.

As the cheer-master bosses the noise that is so indispensable a part of the game, the honor that had come to young Prescott was no mean one. No Gridley freshman had ever before achieved it.

Dick left to his partners the selection of assistant cheer-master. They settled on Dave Darrin.

XIV. ON THE GRIDIRON WITH COBBER SECOND

Once upon a time Thanksgiving Day was an orgie conducted in honor of that national bird, the turkey.

In these happier days, in every live community, the turkey must wait until the football game has been fought out. Then the adherents of one eleven eat crow.

Gridley's great game of the year was scheduled to begin at three o'clock.

However, a large part of the fun, at a really "big" game consists in being on hand an hour ahead of time and hearing and seeing all the fun that goes on.

Promptly at the tick of two o'clock the Gridley Band blew its first blast, to the tune of "Hail, Columbia!"

The band was stationed close to the ground, in the center of the stand reserved for the High School student body. Off the right of the band rose four tiers of bright-faced, wholesome-looking High School girls. To the left of the band sat the boys.

Across the field, on a much smaller stand, sat the hundred or so followers of the team from Cobber. The Cobbers had no band. Few feminine faces appeared on the Cobber stand. The Cobber colors, brown and gray, floated here and there on the breeze in the form of small banners.

Gridley's stand was brilliant with the crimson and gold banners of Gridley H.S. These bright-hued bits of bunting waved deliriously as the band's strains floated forth.

But as "Hail Columbia" belongs to all Americans, the Cobbers elected to flash their bunting, too.

Suddenly the music paused. Then came pressing contempt for the hostile eleven: "All coons look alike to me!"

Cobber's friends took the hint in an instant. To a man the visiting delegation arose, hurling out the Cobber yell in round, deep-chested notes.

Just outside the lines, behind a huge megaphone mounted on a tripod, stood Dick Prescott, cheer-master. At his side was Dave Darrin, whose duties were likely to prove mainly nominal.

Dick swung the megaphone from left to right, as he called out through it:

"Now, then—number seven!"

From the boy's side came the prompt response, in slow, measured cadence, every word of it distinct:

"C-O-B-B-E-R! Born in misfortune! Reared on trouble. Grew to be a disgrace—and died in tears!"

Cobber's friends had to "chew" over that. They had nothing in their repertory of "sass" that seemed to fill this bill.

To return an inapt yell would be worse than silence. So the visitors sat scowling at the field.

"Score one on Cobber's goat," grinned Dave Darrin.

Presently, after some whispering on the visitors' stand, this rather lame one came from the college crowd:

"C-O-B-B-E-R! C-O-B-W-E-B! Our trap for the foolish little fly!"

One of the few girls on the visitors' stand rose to wave her brown and gray banner. She slipped and fell through between the seats.

Quick as a flash Dave Darrin sprang to the megaphone, swinging it around at the enemy, and bawling this atrocious pun:

"Now you spider! But now you can't!"

That brought a laugh, even from the visitors. The hapless girl, with the help of some of her male friends, was hoisted up once more to a seat and safety.

"Look at the poor girl," laughed Dick to Darrin. "She's wearing our colors now—crimson face and a gold locket under it."

"If she wasn't a girl, I'd yell that over to 'em," laughed Dave.

The band was playing again, in its most rollicking rhythm, the old air from "Olivette," "Then bob up serenely!"

The laughter started on the Gridley side, but it spread all the way around to the Cobber seats.

As the minutes flew by it became apparent, from a survey of the filled seats, that at least two thousand, outside of the Cobber and the Gridley H.S. delegations, were present at the game. This meant a healthful addition to the athletics fund.

By and by Cobber recovered its nerve on the seats. Cobber yells floated forth on the air. Yet, for every sing-song taunt the visitors found that the home fans had an apt retort. This was where Dick Prescott's ready wit came in, for it was his task to call for all the cheers, yells, songs or taunts.

Two-thirty came. Dick called for the High School song. The band accompanied, while the entire student body sang.

At its completion Cobber answered, as might have been expected, with cat calls.

Within the next few minutes Dick ran the H.S. boosters through nearly the whole repertory of cheers and songs.

Then, just after quarter of three, Dave made an important discovery.

"Here come the teams," he whispered.

Dick, without turning to look, swung the megaphone so that its wide mouth aimed straight at the band leader.

"You know what now, leader!"

In a twinkling the musicians rose. A cornetist flared forth with a bugle call. Down came the leader's baton. The bugle call shaded off into a single strain from the band. Then out crashed: "See, the conquering hero comes!"

With both teams marching onto the field the call was for courtesy. Gridley H.S. and Cobber rose in their seats. The other spectators, mostly, also stood up. Cobber Second came marching around in review before Gridley H.S. seats, and received a rattling volley of good, staunch old American cheers.

Gridley H.S. eleven took the other side of the field. With Sam Edgeworth at their head they went past the visitors' seats, and received the most thundering welcome that Cobber knew how to give.

Passing the two grand stands the captains wheeled their men marching them out into the field. Two footballs bounded from the side lines, and both teams began preliminary practice plays.

After that the band played a couple of lively airs. The people on the grand stands did not pay much heed to the practice work. They knew that the players were merely warming up.

Coach Morton came down along the side lines, halting close to the cheer-master and his assistant. After the first greeting Mr. Morton turned his eyes anxiously toward the field.

The day was ideal—not too cold. Though the sun was out, there was some cloudiness, yet without a sign of rain or snow. The field was in excellent shape for a fast game.

"Why, Dick, you're trembling!" grunted Dave Darrin, in amazement.

"I know it," Prescott confessed, half guiltily.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing; only I'm so excited I can't quite keep still."

"Afraid for our side?"

"We're going to win!" asserted Dick, stubbornly.

"Yet you're shaking!"

"It is buck fever, I guess. O Dave, I do love this grand old game!"

Coach Morton half turned, sending a comprehending smile at the earnest young freshman.

"I wonder if you'd feel like that," ventured Dave, "if you were one of our fellows out there on the gridiron."

"Not for a second," spoke up Prescott, promptly. "I know what I would be doing though."

"What?"

"I'd he Singing inside—singing songs of triumph over the game we were going to win—the game we just had to win!"

"You'd be pretty confident," smiled Darrin.

"Yes, I would," Dick asserted. "I believe it's the only spirit worth having—the firm conviction that you're going to win, and that nothing can stop you."

Coach Morton turned long enough to say:

"Prescott, I wish you were old enough and big enough to be out there on our team now. When your time comes I certainly hope you'll make the eleven. Your spirit is what every high school needs."

Blushing a bit, Dick drew the score card out of his pocket. He knew the Gridley side of it by heart, already, but he wanted to read it over again. This was the line-up that he saw:

Gridley H.S. Positions Cobber Second

Evans .....left end..........Paisley

Butler.....left tackle.......Jordrey

Beck.......left guard........Smith

Badger.....center ...........Halsey

Thompson...right guard.......Jennison

Edgeworth..right tackle......Potter

Stearns....right end.........Adams

Winters....quarter-back......Bentley

Jasper.....right half-back...Haddleston

Trent .....left half-back....Dill

Gleason....fullback..........Strope

"Why isn't Edgeworth in center?" asked Dave, glancing down over Dick's shoulder.

"Played down a bit too fine to hold center in a big game like this," Dick answered. "Edgeworth is a corking center, and I wouldn't be afraid to see him there today. But Ben Badger is every bit as good."

Coach Morton drew in his breath sharply. Referee Henderson had just signaled to Badger, acting captain for the home team, and Halsey, captain of the Cobbers, to come in for the toss. The players halted in their work to await the result of that toss.

"You call, Halsey," nodded Ben Badger.

"Up!" warned the referee, and flipped the coin.

"Tails!" sang Captain Halsey.

"Heads it is," announced Referee Henderson.

Ben Badger grinned.

"It's all starting our way," clicked Dick Prescott, in an undertone. He seemed lost in a transport of ecstasy.

XV. GRIDLEY FACES DISASTER

"We'll kick from the north end," announced Captain Badger, promptly.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Gridley loped off for its positions.

The band broke loose in a wild hurrah of a tune. Spectators belonging to both sides took up a wild cheer until the referee raised his right hand for silence. The opposing teams were lined up.

Darting forward to center field the referee placed the ball, then ran backwards off the gridiron.

His whistle went to his lips. It was an instant of strained attention.

Trill-ll! It was not a cheer, but a subdued, breathless gasp that rose from the two camps of fans as the opposing lines rushed at each other. Dick could not help a slight groan, for Adams, of Cobber, reached the pigskin first. But Adams kicked it off over the line. Here was Gridley's prompt chance.

Evans kicked the ball from the twenty-five-yard line. It was stopped by Huddleston, who started to run with it. Luckless plan! Gridley's line came thundering down upon him almost ere Huddleston had stepped off! Bump! The combatants piled into and over each other. Huddleston was downed on his fifty-yard line. At this instant Dick bethought himself. Placing his mouth to the megaphone, he roared:

"H.S. cheer!"

It rolled out with full volume while the referee was placing the ball. By the time it died out Cobber's captain could be heard calling:

"Four—nine—thirty-three—eight!"

Trill-ll!

Here, the heavier boys from Cobber began to do their fine work, and Gridley hearts sank.

Cobber made a first down on three plays. It ended in a bad fumble, however, for steady Thompson went down over the ball on the Gridley forty-five-yard line.

"H.S. cheer once more!" bellowed Dick.

The High School boys and girls answered with a will, drawing it out so long as to cause the referee to frown. When it ended Badger's signals ripped out fast and clear.

The ball came back to Quarter-back Winters. He started Gridley faces to glowing again, for Winters did one of the things that had made the team famous. This was the Gridley fake kick. With any lesser team it would have been good for twenty-five yards. Even against the big, alert fellows from Cobber that fake kick was good for eight yards. But not yet did the full effect of the move come. For Cobber was off-side and Trent burst through the line on a spurt that was good for thirty-three yards.

Two snappy line plays followed that made the Cobber boys feel the cold sweat ooze. It would have been Gridley's first down, but a little slip penalized the home players for fifteen yards.

Most of the people of Gridley back in the seats wore now standing up in their excitement. They had dreaded much from the bigger college boys, but now the spectators saw that Gridley could hold its own for strategy, ruse and speed.

Cobber lost its temper just a bit, now, before the smiling faces of these High School boys. Some rough playing followed, but the home boys kept their tempers.

Soon Ben Badger signaled another fake kick formation. That was Gridley's specialty for this game, one long planned and worked for. Quarter-back Winters again got the ball. With a handsome forward pass he made it Thompson's, and it went to the enemy's seven-yard line.

"Question—four!" appealed Cheer-Master Prescott, through the megaphone.

Back from twenty boys on the home stand came the heavy query:

"Where's Cobber? Where's Cobber?"

From all the rest of the H.S. fans came the roaring answer:

"Lost! Suitable reward and no questions asked!"

Then the Cobber fans hurled back this hint:

"Brag's a great dog, Brag's a smart dog, Brag's a good dog, but—— Look out for the cat!"

Cobber now developed their own famous bulldog tactics. From the seven-yard line Gridley moved the ball less than two yards in three plays. Cobber got the ball, and then other things began to happen. Cobber's big fellows worried the ball back for eleven yards. Then the visitors, who carried thirty per cent. more weight, began with heavy mass plays. Gridley began to go down, to double up and collapse before that heavy, rough play, in which fatigue, not speed was the object of the opponents.

It was not scientific play, but it was grueling on the High School boys. Even confident Dick Prescott's heart began to sink. Coach Morton was breathing hard.

Unless Gridley could hold the enemy's rush back effectively enough to get the ball once more on downs, the college boys seemed likely to rush it right over the High School goal line.

Had Cobber tried any kicks, Gridley would have had the ball, and would have known what to do with it. But Captain Halsey knew that. He depended, now, wholly on heavy mass rushes and plays.

Yet the Gridley boys were by no means asleep—or lazy.

"I won't tire our men all out in the first half," muttered Badger to himself. "But I won't let them stroll through our line."

Even the heavy Cobber men, though they advanced doggedly, did not make any too great progress.

Down at the Gridley fifteen-yard line the High School boys developed their greatest stubbornness and strength. So well did they oppose the college boys that, by preventing progress in three successive plays, the home boys again got the ball. They could not move it sufficiently far forward, however. Cobber took the ball again.

"Better let up on the cheers, don't you think, sir?" Dick inquired.

"Yes," nodded Coach Morton. "It would only worry our boys now, and they've got enough on their minds as it is."

Again Cobber took the offensive. At the next down a man had to be sent from the field, and a substitute sent out. But the casualty went to Cobber, not to the High School team. That fact gave the major part of the audience grim satisfaction.

"There they go, now!" muttered Dave Darrin, in disgust. "Nothing is going to stop the big fellows!"

"They're getting nearer our goal line," Dick admitted. "But a game is never won until it's finished. Cobber, as yet, hasn't even gotten the touchdown!"

A minute later Cobber had. To the Gridley onlookers it sent a shock of dismay. The college men certainly had scored.

"It's Cobber's beef, not science," Dick stoutly asserted. "Our fellows play with more speed and real skill. Say—look at that!"

For Bentley, of the college eleven, had just missed the kick from field.

Five points for the visitors! The teams swiftly changed ends and lined up. The whistle's call sent them off to the fray, for there were but three minutes left of the first half.

Cobber won the kick but didn't carry it far. Gridley got down as far as the enemy's twenty-yard line. Then the smaller High School boys were fairly pushed back into their own territory, losing twelve yards of their own side of the field.

Trill-ll! The first half was over.

"Sam, can you do better? Do you want to go back on the job?" asked Ben Badger.

"No," replied the Gridley captain. "It's been tough on us, but you've done everything that I could have done. I'm satisfied, and I believe the coach is."

"We'll ask him," proposed Badger.

Morton was hurrying toward his boys. The coach's face was impassive. For all his looks showed he might have been congratulating himself on a winning.

"No; there's no need to change captains," decided the coach. "It's like changing a horse in mid-stream. I don't see, Badger, that you're lost any tricks that Edgeworth could have made.

"What's our weak point?" asked Ben.

"There isn't much of a weak point, anywhere, as far as your play goes," Mr. Morton responded. "In many respects your play has been better than Cobber's. Weight is your poor point."

Nevertheless the coach made several suggestions in the time that was allowed him.

"Whenever you get a proper chance, Captain, and have the ball, open up the play as much as you can. Don't give Cobber a chance to bump you any when it can be avoided."

In the meantime the Cobber fans, as was their right, were hurling the most abusive cheers and taunts. Dick, as cheer-master, allowed this to pass until nearly the end of the intermission. At last he gave the sudden call through the megaphone:

"Twenty-three!"

The number sounded ominous; so did the cheer that was designated by it. The Gridley H.S. boys on the grand stand responded hardly more than half-heartedly:

"Com-pan-nee served first! That's our steady rule! Manners the best are taught In Gridley school!

"But he who waits laughs best! 'Tis but a distance short 'Twixt laugh and weep— Your joy'll be short!"

"H.S. cheer!" exhorted Prescott, at once.

It came, with a more thundering volley. Yet Gridley folks stirred uneasily.

"That's what comes of putting a freshman, without judgment, on the calling job," muttered Fred Ripley sarcastically.

The whistle blew. Cobber got the ball, and kept it moving. Once there was a brief setback when Gridley got the pigskin and sought to push it back. After four yards, however, Cobber took it and moved down the field with it.

It seemed impossible to offer effective resistance to the heavy college men now.

Gridley hearts sank from sheer weight. Gridley had met more than its match!

XVI. THE FAKE KICK, TWO WAYS

It was almost a touchdown for Cobber when Ben Badger rallied his men enough to fight the college men back some twenty-odd yards. But then the tide turned once more, and Cobber began to fight its way back to the High School goal line.

The spectators had given up hope, all save those who sat in the Cobber seats.

This was to be the first defeat of the season, and the whipping was to come from worthy foemen. Yet are home folks ever satisfied to see their own youngsters beaten?

Defeat was now conceded, however. Even Coach Morton, though his face did not betray him, had given up all hope.

Dick, however, kept calling for the cheers and yells. The student body did their best, but their spirits were low.

Once Morton turned and frowned, but Freshman Prescott did not see him. The coach feared that this jubilant racket would get on the nerves of the Gridley battlers.

"How many minutes will it take Cobber to cross our line?" murmured Dave in Dick's ear.

"They won't do it before next year," Prescott staunchly retorted.

Just then Cobber lost fifteen yards on penalty, and Gridley H.S. had the ball at the moment when it was sadly needed.

"Band, four bars of 'Hot Time in the Old Town!'" yelled Prescott through the big megaphone.

The leader's baton fell like a flash. The band itself sharing in the excitement fairly ripped the air out in gallop time.

As Ben Badger heard he straightened up for a moment, shaking his long locks in the wind. A smile crossed his face. Then he bent over the ball for the pass.

"Nine—fourteen, eighteen—seven!" he called.

Evans darted quickly out on his end. Quarter-back Winters moved his feet somewhat to left. Trent, left half-back, shot swiftly away to an altered position.

Captain Halsey, of the college team, saw instantly that it looked like a long pass and a sprint around Gridley's left end. A football general must change front swiftly. At the signal, Cobber disposed itself to bunch against the High School left.

The whistle blew. Winters got the ball, and made the movements for a kick. Cobber men, in the air on the jump, halted somewhat uncertainly, some of them.

It was a fake kick, and a royally good one. The ball went to Stearns instead. Out around the right end dashed the little left, with Gridley support thumping over the ground to back him up. But Stearns was the best Gridley runner on the field today. Moreover, he had not been worked as hard as had Evans.

A nimble dodge, and Stearns was past the first Cobber interference.

A howl of delight went up from the home fans.

Then Cobber's secondary defense made a dash for Stearns. The latter found himself balked, so headed straight for them. Through the line he made a dash. It was too much for little Stearns. Down he went, and a groan of disappointment went up from the Gridley seats.

Yet only to one knee went the swift little end. He was up and off again like a shot. One Cobber man wheeled and would have grabbed the little right end, but there was where Frank Thompson played for all there was in him. He pitched forward, falling headlong, and Smith, of Cobber, fell over him.

It was a sprint, now! For an instant the field close to Stearns was clear of opposition.

Wild cheering broke loose. Dick Prescott fairly danced for joy.

Ah! Here came some of the belated Cobber men, supporting their fullback.

There was a heavy crash. Stearns, caught in the midst of the mixup, went down, but he covered the pigskin!

Then the linesman hurried up. The news was so good that it flew from mouth to mouth along the east side boards:

"Forty-two yards!"

Cobber's captain gasped. It had been close playing all afternoon. He had looked for nothing like this. Clearly, Gridley's fake kick tactics were all of the real thing.

For the first time Halsey and his best men felt much of their confidence ooze.

Down almost over the line, Gridley soon had the ball, while the home fans were again standing up and cheering. Then a penalty set the ball back. But Gridley soon had the ball again.

In two plays the doughty High School boys carried the pigskin eight yards. Only nine to go!

As Badger's signals rang out for the third pass, Badger's men were seen to spread. Another fake kick?

Then the ball went backward. Winters, of course, took it. Like magic, while watchful Cobber stood opened up, the Gridley line closed in again. Artful Dodger Winters still had the ball. Thompson, Edgeworth, Badger and Beck butted in solidly behind the lithe quarter-back. The rest of Gridley followed.

Cheek of cheek! The out-weighed High School boys were giving Cobber a dose of Cobber medicine. It was a mass-play—a battering-ram assault.

And Gridley got it over! An inch past the line Winters tripped and went down, covering the ball.

Touchdown!

Five to five a tie score!

"Kick the goal!" came the hoarse appeal from the east side seats.

"Kick as you never kicked before!"

Gridley fans could fairly hear themselves shake now. Hats were off and waving. The High School girls stood up, frantically waving their crimson and gold banners.

Cool, steady, like one without nerves, Thompson went back into the field and poised himself for the kick.

At the whistle the dull thump of a boot against the pigskin was heard all over the field. The ball arched and soared. Even before it came toward earth a wild "hurrah!" went up from the east side. The ball went straight between the bars!

Score: "Six to five!"

Badger and his young reliables were quietly smiling, now. Captain Halsey began to look glum.

"Four bars of 'Hot Time' once more!" begged Dick Prescott, in a voice that sounded as if palsy-touched.

The band blared out while the teams were changing ends.

Once more Cobber got the ball on the kick-off. A massed rush was made for Gridley's goal, but it didn't get far. With eleven minutes left to play, and a lead on the score, Badger had resolved on using up all the reserve strength, if need be. Gridley had not yet called on any substitutes, and several capable young "subs" waited just outside the lines, frantic for a call. Let Cobber be rough, if that suited the college men.

Cobber lost the ball on downs.

Then Gridley took the pigskin.

"Play for time," was Badger's signaled order.

Not much in the delay line is possible under a vigilant referee, yet all the time that strategy could gain was taken advantage of.

Thrice the ball was fought over the center of the gridiron. Then it settled slowly toward the High School goal, making slow, stubbornly fought advances.

Three minutes left to play!

Gridley H.S. got the ball once more, under the distance rule.

Now Badger called out the same signal that had been used for that most effective fake kick.

Captain Halsey smiled as he saw the High School fighters spread out swiftly, just as they had done before.

Halsey thought he knew this time! That same old ruse of dashing around the left end; then a fake kick and a dashing race by Stearns. Halsey's swiftly telegraphed orders disposed his men to meet the former dodge more effectively.

The whistle sounded, and the ball was passed. But what Halsey didn't know was that, the second time this signal was called it meant the players were to do exactly what they seemed spreading out for.

So the ball actually went around the left end this time, Evans making the best sprint that was left in his stiffening muscles.

He covered twenty-four yards before he was brought to earth.

Here was where delay came in. While Cobber was fighting stubbornly to regain the pigskin, the whistle sounded the end of the second half.

Gridley had won from the big enemy!

Now pandemonium broke loose. Two thousand people leaped up and down, yelling themselves hoarse.

So many hats went into the air that it was a miracle if every man recovered his own headgear.

The band didn't play; the student body didn't sound a yell. What would have been the use? There was too much noise.

Dick made a bound, landing beside the band leader.

"Hustle your men, please! Get out into the field and lead our men off."

It needed quick work, for the players were already leaving the grounds. The wildest fans were getting over the lines, mingling with the late players.

But the band got there on the run. Above all the din Ben Badger was quick to realize the meaning of the new move. He caught his men back, forming them just behind the forming band. Off marched the victorious team to the air of "Hot Time!" That brought down the cheering harder than ever.

While it lasted, Dick and Dave, by frantic movements, succeeded in holding a large proportion of the student body back in their seats.

As soon as the band had reached the far end of the field, and the human racket had died down somewhat, Freshman Prescott succeeded in making himself heard:

"Now! Our final yell of victory!"

This was the High School yell, followed, instantly, by the taunting query:

"Is there any game you do play, Cobber?"

But there came no answer from the depths of the gloomy Cobber fans.

XVII. DICK'S "FIND" MAKES GRIDLEY SHIVER

That closed the football season in a blaze of glory. Gridley H.S. had closed the year without a defeat.

The day after Thanksgiving football is deader than marbles. Gridley H.S. boys and girls settled down to study until the holidays came on.

The next thing of note that happened in the student world jarred the whole town. There might have been a much bigger jar, however.

Dave Darrin often worked, Saturday nights, in the express office.

One night in early December he was employed there as usual. At about nine o'clock Dick Prescott and Tom Reade dropped in.

"Pretty near through, old fellow?" Dick asked.

"I will be when the 8:50 gets in and the goods are checked up," replied Dave. "The train is a few minutes late tonight."

There being no one else at the office, except the night manager and two clerks, Dick and Reade felt that they would not be in the way if they waited for Dave.

Twenty minutes later the wagon drove up with the packages and cases that had arrived on the 8:50 train.

"You two can give a hand, if you like," invited Dave, as the packages were being passed up to the counter, checked and taken care of.

Prescott and Reade pitched in, working with a will.

"Here, don't shoot this box through as fast as you've done the others," counseled Dick, as he picked up a small box, some eighteen inches long and about a foot square at the end. "The label says, 'Extra fragile. Value two hundred and fifty dollars.'"

Dave reached out to receive it, as Dick laid it carefully on the counter.

"Packages of that value have to be handled with caution," muttered Dave. "When a fellow puts on a valuation like that, it means that he intends to make claim for any damage whatever."

"Hold on," muttered Dick, eyeing the counter. "There's something leaking from the box now."

Dave took his hands away, then bent over to have a look with Dick.

A very tiny puddle of some very thick, syrupy stuff was slowly forming on the counter.

"I wonder if the contents have been damaged?" muttered Dave, uneasily. Then added, in a whisper:

"The night manager will blame us, and hold me responsible, if there is any damage."

Both boys carefully inspected the tiny puddle for a few moments.

"Say, don't touch the box again," counseled Prescott, uneasily. "Do you know what that stuff looks to me like, Dave?"

"What?"

"Do you remember the thick stuff that Dr. Thornton showed us in IV. Chemistry the other day?"

"Great Scott!" breathed Dave Darrin, anxiously. "You don't mean nitroglycerine?"

"But I do!" Dick nodded, energetically.

"Wow! Don't stir from here. I'll call the night manager."

Night Manager Drowan came over at once, eyeing the box and the tiny pool of thick stuff.

"I never saw nitroglycerine but once," remarked Mr. Drowan, nervously. "I should say this stuff looks just like it. We won't take any chances, anyway. Dave, you go to the telephone, and notify the police. Your friends can stand guard over the box so that no one gets a chance to go near it."

But, while Dave was at the 'phone, Mr. Drowan hung over the box as though fascinated.

"It takes fire to set this stuff off, doesn't it?" he asked.

"No," Dick replied. "If it's nitroglycerine in that box, a light, sharp blow might be enough to do the trick. At least, that was about what Dr. Thornton said."

Dave came back with word that the police would send some one at once.

"They asked me whom the stuff was addressed to," Dave continued, "and I had to admit that I didn't know."

"It's addressed to Simon Tripps, to be called for. Identification by letter herewith," read Dick Prescott, from the label.

"Yes; I have the letter," nodded Mr. Drowan. "It contains the signature of the party who's to call for the box. That's all the identification that's asked."

At this moment Officer Hemingway, in plain clothes, came in, followed by a policeman in uniform.

Hemingway took a look at the stuff slowly oozing out of a corner of the box.

"My bet is nitroglycerine—what the bank robbers call 'soup,'" declared Hemingway, almost in a whisper. "All right; we'll take it up to the station house. Then we'll send for Dr. Thornton, who is the best chemist hereabouts. As soon as we get this stuff to the station house I'll hustle back and hide against the coming of Mr. Tripps. If he comes before I get back, jump on the fellow and hold him for me, no matter what kind of a fight he puts up."

Dave gazed after the retreating figures of the policemen.

"Bright man, that Hemingway," he remarked. "If Tripps shows up, we are to jump on him and nail him—no matter if he hauls out two six-shooter and turns 'em on us"

"We can grab any one man, and hold him," returned Dick, confidently. "All we've got to do is to get at him from all sides. See here, Dave, if a fellow comes in and tells you he's Tripps, you repeat the name as though you weren't sure. As soon as we hear the name, Tom and I can jump on him from behind, and you can sail in in front. Eh, Reade?"

"It sounds good," nodded Tom. "I'll take a chance on it, Dick, with you to engineer the job."

In ten minutes Officer Hemingway was back. He stepped into a cupboard close to the counter, prepared for the coming of Tripps.

Half an hour later the police station's officer in charge telephoned that Dr. Thornton had carefully opened the box, and had declared that it contained four pounds of nitroglycerine. Nor had Dr. Thornton taken any chances of mistake. He had taken a minute quantity of the suspected stuff out in the yard back of the station house, and had exploded it.

At a moment when the office was empty of patrons Mr. Drowan stepped into the cupboard for a moment, as though searching for something.

"How late do you stay open?" whispered Hemingway.

"Ten o'clock, usually, on Saturday nights, but we'll keep open as late as you want, officer."

"Better keep open until midnight, then."

So they did, Dick telephoning his parents at the store to explain that he was at the express office helping Dave.

Midnight came and went. A few minutes after the new day had begun Hemingway came out of the cupboard.

"You may as well close up, Drowan," the plain clothes man decided. "The fellow who calls himself Tripps isn't going to show up. If he had been going to claim his box he'd have been here before this."

"You think he got scared away?" asked the night manager.

"The fellow was probably keeping watch on this office. He saw what happened, and decided not to run his neck into a noose. You'll never have any word from Tripps."

"Isn't it just barely possible," hinted one of the clerks, "that the man wanted the stuff for some legitimate purpose?"

"A man who knows how to use nitroglycerine," retorted Hemingway, gruffly, "also knows that it's against the law to ship nitroglycerine unlabeled. He also knows that it's against the law for an express company to transport the stuff on a car that is part of a passenger train. So this fellow who calls himself Tripps is a crook. We haven't caught him, but we've stopped him from using his 'soup' the way he had intended to use it."

"Wonder what he did want to do with it?" mused Dick Prescott.

"There are any one of twenty ways in which the fellow might have used the stuff criminally," replied the plain clothes man. "Of course, for one thing, it could be used to blow open a safe with. But safecracking, nowadays, is done by ordinary robbers, and they're able to carry in a pocket or a satchel the small quantity of 'soup' that it takes to blow the lock of a safe door, or the door off the safe."

After thinking a few minutes, Hemingway went to the telephone, calling up the chief of police at the latter's home. The plain clothes man stated the case, and suggested that the story be told to "The Blade" editor for publication in the morning issue. Then, if anyone in town had any definite suspicion why so much nitroglycerine should be needed in that little city, he could communicate his suspicions or his facts to the police.

"The chief agrees to my plan," nodded Hemingway, leaving the 'phone. "Me for 'The Blade' office."

"See here," begged Dick, earnestly, "if there's to be a good newspaper story in this, please let me turn it over to Len Spencer. He's one of our best newspaper men. He'll write a corking good story about this business—and, besides, I'm under some personal obligations to him."

"So I've heard," replied the plain clothes man, with a twinkle in his eyes. Hemingway heard a good deal in his saunterings about Gridley. He had picked up the yarn about Dick & Co., Len Spencer and the "dead ones."

"So that 'The Blade' gets it, I don't care who writes the story," replied the policeman, good-humoredly.

Dick swiftly called up "The Morning Blade' office. Spencer was there, and came to the telephone.

"How's news tonight?" asked Prescott, after naming himself.

"Duller than a lecture," rejoined Len.

"Would you like a hot one for the first page?" pursued Dick.

"Would I? Would a cat lap milk, or a dog run when he had a can tied to his tail? But don't string me, Dick. There's an absolute zero on news tonight."

"Then you stay right where you are for two or three minutes," Dick begged his reporter friend. "Officer Hemingway and some others are coming down to see you. You'll want to save three or four columns, I guess."

"Oh, now, see here, Dick——" came Reporter Spencer's voice, in expostulation.

"Straight goods," Dick assured him. "When I say that I mean it. And, this time, I not only mean it, but know it. Wait! We'll be right down to your office."

Nor did it take Len Spencer long to realize that he had in hand the big news sensation of the hour for the people of Gridley.

Everyone in Gridley either wondered or shivered the next morning at breakfast table.

Four pounds of nitroglycerine are enough to work fearful havoc and mischief.

XVIII. FRED SLIDES INTO THE FREEZE

Monday's "Blade" contained additional light on the nitroglycerine affair—or what passed as "light."

Len Spencer and the local police had discovered that at least three of the wealthiest men in town had received, during the last few weeks, threatening letters from cranks.

These cranks had all demanded money, under pain of severe harm if they failed to turn over the money.

It now developed that the police chief and Officer Hemingway had, some time before, arrested a nearly harmless lunatic, who, it was believed had written the letters. The man with the unbalanced mind did not appear dangerous, yet, in view of his threats, he had been quietly "railroaded" off to all asylum for the insane.

Now, the arrival of four pounds of nitroglycerine at the local express office was believed to show that the lunatic had had comrades, or else that the crazy man had been used merely as a tool.

Hemingway hurried off to the asylum, to interview the unfortunate one. All the plain clothes man succeeded in getting, however, was a rambling talk that didn't make sense.

Monday's "Blade" announced that the chief of police had been authorized to offer a reward of five hundred dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the party or parties behind the criminal shipment of the giant explosive to Gridley.

Everyone believed that the frightened rich men had combined to offer the reward. Many wondered that the offered reward was not larger.

All of the student body at the High School were busy talking about the affair in the big assembly room before the session opened.

"I see where my parents have made a great mistake," sighed Frank Thompson.

"How?" demanded Ben Badger.

"Instead of wasting my time at the High School they should have apprenticed me to a good journeyman detective," grumbled Thomp.

"Oh, but couldn't I use that five hundred, if only my training had fitted me for such deeds as running down a nitroglycerine peddler!"

"It isn't anything to joke about," shuddered one of the girls. "It's awful! Would four pounds of the dreadful stuff destroy the town of Gridley?"

"No," Badger informed her; "but it would be enough to blow up several wood-piles and destroy a lot of clean Monday wash."

"There you go joking again," protested the girl, and turned away.

"Oh, well," declared Fred Ripley, "we must possess ourselves with patience. We shall soon know the whole truth."

"Do you really think so?" asked Purcell.

"It's one of the surest things conceivable," railed Ripley. "That bright constellation of freshmen known under the musical title of Dick & Co. will solve the whole affair wit, in forty-eight hours. Indeed, I'm not sure but Dick & Co., even at this moment, carry the secret looked in their breasts."

Fred glanced quickly around him to see how much of a laugh this had started. To his chagrin he found his bantering had fallen flat.

"Oh, well," gaped Dowdell, gazing out of the window near which he stood, "I know one important fact about the mystery."

"What's that?" asked half a dozen quickly.

"None of the five hundred is destined to come my way.

"That jest saddens a lot of us with the same conviction," muttered Ted Butler, shaking his head.

"But this I do know," continued Dowdell, "if the weather continues cold there'll be some elegant skating before the week is out."

Gridley did not slumber over the nitroglycerine mystery. Len Spencer, though he could gain no actual information, managed to have something interesting on the subject in each morning's "Blade." The people of Gridley talked of the mystery everywhere.

There was one other mild sensation this week that lasted for a part of a day. Tip Scammon came up for his trial. He pleaded guilty to the thefts from the High School locker room, and also guilty to the charge of entering the Prescott rooms in order to hide his loot in Dick's trunk. By way of leniency toward a first offender the court let Tip off with a sentence of fourteen months in the penitentiary. This sentence, by good behavior on the part of Tip, would shrink to ten months of actual imprisonment.

In every way the police and the prosecuting attorney tried to make Tip reveal the name of his confederate. But Tip, for reasons of his own, maintained absolute, dogged silence on this head, and went to the penitentiary without having named the person who met him in the alleyway that evening when Tip himself was caught.

The promise of skating was made good. Wednesday afternoon it was discovered that the ice in Gaylor's Cove was in splendid condition, and strong enough to bear.

Thursday a series of High School racing contests were planned for Saturday afternoon. There was so much money left over in the Athletics Committee's treasury that it was voted to offer a series of individual trophies for boy and girl skaters in different events.

Moreover, in these skating events members of the freshman class were to be allowed to compete.

"Now, see here, fellows," urged Dick, when he had gotten his partners aside, "some of the freshman class ought to be winners of some of the events. We want to give our class a good name. And, out of the six of us, there ought to be one winner for something. I wish you'd all do your best to get in shape. You'll all go over to the cove with me this afternoon, of course."

They did. More than a hundred of the student body, most of them boys, were on the ice that afternoon.

Some went scurrying by for all they were worth. These were training for the races.

Others gathered in the less traveled parts of the cove, which was a large one, and practiced the "fancy" feats. Tom Reade and Dan Dalzell put themselves in this class. Dick and his other partners went in for speed.

Friday afternoon there was an even larger attendance.

Gaylor's Cove was about half a mile long, with an average width of a quarter of a mile. At the middle the cove was open for a long way upon the river.

At some points on the river proper the ice was strong enough to bear. Near Gaylor's Cove, however, the river current was so swift that the river ice at this point looked thin and treacherous. No one ventured out on the ice just beyond the cove.

Friday night many a High School boy and girl studied the sky. There was no sign of storm, nor did the conditions seem to threaten a thaw. Saturday morning was cold and clear. The temperature, at noon, was just above freezing point, though not enough so to bring about a "thaw" in the ice.

By one o'clock Saturday afternoon Gaylor's Cove was a scene of great activity. Two thirds of the High School students were there, most of them on skates. There were three or four hundred other youngsters, and more than a hundred grown-ups.

"All we need is the band," laughed Dick Prescott, as he skated slowly along with Laura Bentley.

"The click-clack of the skates is enough for me," Laura replied.

"You are not down in any of the girls' contests, are you?" he asked.

"No; does that disappoint you, Dick?"

"N-no," he said, slowly. "Still, it's fine to see every event all but crowded."

"In how many events are you entered?" asked the girl.

"Only one, the freshman's mile. That will be swift work, and there are two turns, the way the course is to be laid out."

"Why didn't you enter more of the freshman events?" Laura asked.

"Well, it will take a lot of good wind to keep going at a swift pace for a mile. I want to save all my strength and wind for that one event."

"What is the prize in the freshman's mile?" asked Laura, fumbling in her muff for the card of the day's events.

"You noticed that handsome Canadian toboggan, didn't you?"

"The one with the side hand-rails?" Laura asked, looking up brightly into his face. "Yes; that ought to have been one of the prizes in the girls' events."

"Why?" queried Dick, looking a bit disconcerted.

"Why, those hand-rails are meant for timid girls to take hold of. A boy would never want a toboggan with hand-rails."

"Perhaps the fellow who's going to win the freshman's mile expects to invite some of the young ladies to go out tobogganing with him," hinted young Prescott.

"Is it fixed who shall win that race?" demanded Laura, teasingly.

"Hardly that," Dick rejoined, dryly.

"Then how do you know the coming owner's intentions, if you don't know who is going to win the race?" Miss Bentley insisted.

"Well, you see, it's this way?" Dick admitted, "I've made up my mind to win that race."

"So you regard the race as being as good as won by yourself?" smiled the physician's daughter.

"It's one of the rules of Dick & Co.," Prescott answered, as they turned and skated slowly back toward the center of the cove, "when we go into anything we consider it as good as won from the outset."

"Well, I like that spirit," Laura admitted. "Faint heart never yet won anything but a spill."

Laura had her card out by this time, and was studying it leisurely, trusting to her companion to guide her.

"I see Fred Ripley is entered for the grand event in fancy skating," she observed.

"Yes; are you interested in him?"

Something in the directness of the question caused the girl to bite her lips.

"Now, that's hardly fair, Dick," she cried, flushing with vexation. "No; the fact is, I'm hoping he'll lose."

"Why?"

"Because, Fred has never been very nice to you, Dick."

That was direct enough, and Dick flushed with pleasure.

"Thank you, Laura; that's more handsome than what I said to you."

"I accept your apology," she laughed. "Look! There goes Fred Ripley now! How foolish of him."

Fred was heading straight out of the cove toward the river. He was a fine skater, and now he was showing off at his best. He had adapted a "turn promenade" step from roller skating, and was whirling along, turning and half dancing as he sped along. It was a graceful, rhythmical performance. Despite the fact that young Ripley was not widely liked, his present work drew considerable applause from the spectators.

That applause acted like incense under the young man's nostrils. He determined to go farther out, maintaining his present step unbroken.

"Look out, Ripley!" warned Thomp. "The ice won't bear out there."

Fred didn't reply by as much as a look. He kept on out toward the thin ice.

Cra-a-ack! Splash! The thin ice had broken. Ripley, moving backwards, did not realize his fix until his feet; shot into the water. Down he came on his back, breaking more of the ice.

A yell, and he was gone below the surface.

And now everybody seemed shouting at once. A hundred people ran to and fro, shouting out what ought to be done.

"Get a rope! Run for a doctor! Bring fence rails! Telephone for the police!"

That's the usual way with a crowd, to think up things that others ought to do.

Dick Prescott espied Dave Darrin ahead. Dropping Laura's arm without a word, Dick skated swiftly up to Dave, called Darrin, then lightning. As he worked young Prescott shot out a few hurried orders.

Then another great cry went up. Dick Prescott was sprinting fast toward the thin ice. Close to where Fred Ripley had gone down there was another great rent in the ice.

Dick Prescott was "in the freeze," in quest of his enemy!

XIX. DICK & CO. SHOW SOME TEAM WORK

So suddenly and heavily did he break through the thin ice that Dick went underneath the surface.

"Help!" roared Fred, in a frenzy, as he came to the surface.

The skates on his feet clogged all his movements, and acted like lead.

"There's Ripley, but where's Prescott?" shouted several.

"A-a-ah!"

That last cry went up as a sound of relief, when Prescott's brown-haired pate, hatless, bobbed up close to where he had gone down.

"Good boy, Prescott!"

"Go in and get Ripley."

"Save yourself, anyway! Don't be over-foolish!"

A dozen more cries went up from cove and shore.

Yet it is doubtful if Prescott heard any of them.

In the first instant that his eyes came above the level of the water, Dick took in the details of Ripley's whereabouts.

Dick had to calculate at lightning speed.

"O Prescott," gasped Fred, when he saw his would-be rescuer, "can't you break the ice between us? I can't keep up much longer."

"Get hold of the edge of the ice, Ripley," called Dick. "Just rest lightly on it. Don't try to make it bear your weight—it won't! It'll help hold you up, though, if you keep cool."

"Cool?" groaned Fred. "I'm freezing. In pity's name get to me quickly."

Fred was so wholly self-centered that it didn't occur to him that the freshman must be just as chilled as he himself was.

Dick's legs ached with the cold chill of the icy water. He was free of the weight of skates, however, and he trod water during the few seconds that he needed for making up his mind what it was best to do.

Much depended upon the help that those on shore gave, but Dick had left his orders with Dave Darrin, and he trusted the shore end to his capable lieutenant.

Fred, though hardly more than able to keep himself afloat, managed to reach the nearest edge of ice.

He clutched at it eagerly, then, disregarding excellent advice, he tried to climb out upon it.

There was another crash. With another yell, Ripley sank again, to the horror of those on shore.

But Prescott did not see this. The freshman, after trying to calculate the exact distance across the intervening ice, dived below the glassy surface. He was swimming, now, under the ice. As he swam the freshman kept his eyes open, swimming close to the ice, yet not touching it.

So he came up, in the open. But where was Fred?

"Ripley just sank!" came the hoarse chorus from shore and cove.

This was serious enough. He who sinks for the second time in icy waters, especially when hampered by skates, may very likely not come up again.

"It must have been about here that he went down," calculated Prescott, deliberately, as he swam through the open water. "Now, then!"

Down went Dick. To those looking on, it was heroic—sublime? Yet it looked as though the rescuer must be dooming himself.

"One Prescott is worth a dozen Ripleys" murmured one man who, unable to swim, was obliged to stand looking uselessly on.

There were still many who were shouting confusing advice as to what others ought to do. A few were even running about trying to do something.

Dave Darrin was actually "on the job."

He had pressed Dick's other partners into service and as many of the High School boys as possible. They got off their skates in a rush.

"Tom," shouted Dave, "you and Greg get some of the fellows and rush down as many ties as you can from that pile by the railroad tracks. Dalzell, you and Harry get down at the edge of send him your way. Make a raft by laying four ties side by side, and lash the ends. Do it as quick as a flash. I'll be there by that time."

Tom and Greg quickly had a dozen men running for railroad ties, a pile of which stood less than an eighth of a mile away.

By the time that the man with ropes arrived, and two more behind him, bringing more, there were a dozen railroad ties on the ice by the outer edge of the cove. Harry Hazelton and Dan snatched short lengths of rope and knotted them around either end of the raft.

"Some of you men make another raft, just like that one!" shouted Dave, who, at the time, was busily engaged in making a noose at one end of a long coil of half-inch rope.

"Here, you two men get hold of the other end of this," ordered Dave, running up with the coil of rope.

Then, hardly waiting to make sure that they had the rope, Dave turned to Harry and Dan, calling to them to help him push the raft out beyond the cove. A dozen men and boys tried to help, all at once, but Dave and Harry saw to it that no speed was lost by blundering.

The raft was not difficult to push out over the ice.

"Now, let me have it alone," shouted Dave. "The ice may break at any point beyond."

So Dave tugged and pushed, guiding the small raft before him.

Cra-ack! Dave and the raft went through the ice, but Darrin quickly climbed up astride of the ties.

Out beyond, Dick was holding up Fred Ripley, whom he had found and brought to the surface. Fred's eyes were nearly closed. After his second drop below, the Ripley lad was nearly spent.

Glancing back, Dave saw that another raft was being pushed out by the two men who held the rope that was noosed under his shoulders.

"Now, halt where you are!" Dave Darrin shouted back. "Toss me a long rope that I can throw out to Prescott!"

The rope came swirling. Dave caught it easily enough. Then, still sitting on the raft, his legs, of course, in the water, Darrin recoiled the rope.

"Can you spare a hand to catch, Dick?" shouted Dave.

"Surely!" came back the steady answer.

The coil flew out across the thin ice. One end splashed in the water. Guiding the all but helpless Fred, Dick swam to the rope's end.

Further back the two men who held to the rope connecting with Dave had seated themselves across the second raft. If the ice broke at that point they would have little difficulty in making themselves safe.

"Ripley, stir yourself!" ordered Dick. "Can you take hold of this rope, and keep hold of it" Can you climb across the thin ice, holding onto the rope and being towed if the ice breaks?"

"I—I—I'm afraid," chattered Ripley. "You come with me!"

"It'll be a good deal easier if you can go first, and alone," spoke the freshman, rather sternly. "I think I can keep myself afloat until you get over to solid ice. Then the rope can be thrown back to me."

"I'm afraid, I tell you," insisted Fred, his teeth clicking against each other. "Can't you see that I'm all in?"

"You'll have us both all in, if you don't get some courage together," young Prescott insisted. "Come, be a man, Ripley!"

"I'm freezing to death here," moaned Ripley, closing his eyes.

Somehow—he could never tell just how, afterwards, Dick managed to slip the rope under Fred's shoulders. With infinite effort—for he had to keep them both afloat, the freshman double-knotted the rope.

"Come, now, you've got to help yourself across the ice, while Dave hauls on the line," urged Dick.

Fred made a motion as though to bestir himself but he did it so feebly that Prescott gave him a sharp pinch.

"Ouch!" flared Fred, now seeming to be wide awake. "Prescott, you have the upper hand here. Don't be a bully!"

"I don't want to," spoke Dick, quietly, trying to keep his own teeth from rattling. "But you've got to stir yourself, or else I must do it for you. Now, get started over the thin ice. Dave will haul. Never mind if the ice breaks under you; the rope is tied around you. You're sure to be hauled to safety if you help yourself. Now, then, Dave! Begin to haul in!"

It needed another pinch to make Fred Ripley bestir himself properly. He half whimpered in protest, but Prescott was past minding that.

Hardly had Ripley gotten his full weight upon the ice than it broke under him. He splashed into the water with a great howl, but alert Dave Darrin hauled in just enough of the rope. Ripley was safe, and could make the next attempt to get out on the ice.

Meanwhile, Prescott swam to another part of the ice edge. He rested his hands on that edge, not heavily, but just enough for some support. At the same time he kept his tired, aching, almost frozen legs in motion just to keep himself from growing any more numb.

Four times Fred Ripley broke through the thin ice, but each time Dave Darrin, astride the first raft, pulled in on the rope just in time.

After getting himself out of the water for the fifth time, Ripley crawled over stronger ice, and went on past the hole in which Dave sat on the raft.

Then Ripley was able to get to his feet, tottering toward the shore, shaking as though with fever and chills.

A cheer went up from those who watched. The enthusiasm would have been vastly greater had not the crowd had its eyes on Dick Prescott, who must yet be saved if aid could reach him before his numbed limbs could sustain him no longer.

"Get that rope off, Ripley," bawled Dave Darrin. "Hurry! I must throw it to Dick, or he'll go down!"

"I can't get it off," mumbled Fred, tugging vainly, almost aimlessly, as he still moved coveward.

As he was on staunch ice, now, three or four men ran toward him.

One, with a sharp knife, waved the others away and quickly slashed the noose away from Fred's shoulders.

"Go on, you pup!" grumbled the man with the knife. "Now, we'll try to get help to the man!"

Fred was not too far spent to flash angrily at that taunt.

"You'd better be careful whom you speak to like that!" snarled Ripley. "You're a low-bred fellow, anyway!"

But the man who had slashed the rope free didn't even hear. He had turned toward Darrin, to make sure that Dave could draw the rope toward him fast enough.

"One of you people get Ripley's skates off for him, and help him ashore," called Tom Reade.

"Why don't you?" some one in the crowd answered.

"Because my job," retorted Reade, "is keeping my eyes on my chum, ready to help if anything comes up that I can do."

Four or five hurried to Fred's aid. He had been walking on his skates, which, at best, is an awkward style of locomotion. Two men held him up, while two of the H.S. boys quickly took off his skates. After that Fred, leaning on one of the H.S. boys, made much quicker time to the shore.

Here a man with a sleigh waited.

"Pile him in here," directed the driver. "Dr. Gilbert has gone up to the Avery House and is getting things ready. I'll have Ripley back in a jiffy."

"Oh, that's all right," sang out a boy in the freshman class. "But the main thing is to hustle back and be ready to take Dick Prescott."

"And I'll pray all through the round trip that you may get Prescott back to shore alive," fervently replied the driver, as he brought the whip down across the horse's back.

Dave Darrin, too, was chilled. That was why, when he had drawn all the rope in and had coiled it, he made a throw that fell short.

"Courage, Dick, old fellow," he shouted. "I'll get it to you, in a jiffy."

Nervously, quickly, Dave hauled in the rope. He coiled rapidly, yet with care.

"Now, may Heaven give me the strength to throw this coil far enough to do the trick!" prayed Dave Darrin, as he made the second cast.

There was frenzy behind that throw. Hurrah! There was four feet of rope to spare as it splashed into the open part where Dick still hung, though he was fast weakening.

"There's a noose on the end—I fixed it, Dick! Get it over your head and under your shoulders!" bawled Dave Darrin.

It was only the coolness of a last desperate hope that enabled the freshman to adjust the noose sufficiently.

"All r-r-r-i-ight!" he called, unable to make any further effort to stop the rattling of his teeth.

"Come on, then!" cheered Dave.

It was team play between two freshmen, but it was worked out. Dick, after a while, reached solid ice. Tom Reade and Dan Dalzell risked themselves a good deal in going far out to meet him. But they got their leader and rushed him toward the cove.

Soon a dozen H.S. boys were running around Dick. Some of them had him upon their shoulders; others were trying to help.

As they rushed him across the cove to the sleigh that had just arrived, the cheering was deafening.

Others in the crowd had already run up along the road, which was lined as Dick and Darrin were driven along as fast as the horse could go. Tom Reade stood on the runners behind. As soon as the door of the hotel was reached, Reade aided the driver in rushing the boys inside.

Even here the cheering followed them in volleys.

"Come on—into a cold room with you, at first," ordered Dr. Gilbert, appearing, while a dozen H.S. boys came in his wake. "You don't want to get near a fire yet. Strip them, both, lads, and rub them down for all you're worth. Don't mind peeling a little skin off!"

Dick and Dave were rushed into a room. With so many hands to help, they were soon stripped. Then rough Turkish towels were plied upon them until even their skins began to show the red of blood and life.

"Now, wrap blankets about them, and bring them into a warm room," ordered the doctor.

As they entered the other room they espied Fred Ripley, already seated in an arm-chair by the stove, a bowl of something hot in one hand.

The driver of the sleigh now came in.

"You lads will want something warm and dry to put on," he declared. "Give me your orders. The distance isn't far. I'll drive to your homes and get the clothes and things that you want."

"No, thank you," returned Ripley, stiffly. "I've already had a telephone message sent, and my father's auto will bring out what I need."

"But you youngsters will want something?" asked the driver, turning to the plucky freshmen.

Dick and Dave stated their requests, Prescott adding:

"But please be sure to make our parents understand that we're safe. We don't want them seared to death."

Fred Ripley took a long swallow of the steaming stuff in his bowl. As he did so he took a furtive glance in the direction of the freshmen.

Was he going to attempt to thank them for having risked their own lives to help him back to safety?

XX. OUT FOR THAT TOBOGGAN!

Ben Badger came to the shore edge of the ice, megaphone in hand announcing in stentorian tones:

"Our friends are safe—even jolly. The sports will now go on!"

First on the card was a free-for-all dash of a half mile, standing start. The trophy was a regulation target revolver.

Badger, of the first class, and Purcell, of the sophomore, held the lead and all but tied each other at the outset. Third in order came Stearns, the agile little right end of the eleven. When half the distance had been traveled it was noticed that Stearns was creeping up on the leaders.

"Look out, Ben, or the little fellow will get you!" roared friends.

Stearns continued to gain, slowly. Purcell dropped back to third place. None of the other eight in the race seemed likely to do anything effective.

"A little more steam, Ben!"

"Stearns, you can get it!"

In the last eighth of the distance Stearns made good. Summoning all his football wind and speed the little right end closed and shot ahead. Not once in the remainder of the course did Ben Badger quite catch up with his smaller opponent. Stearns won by some fifteen yards.

The racers came slowly back, breathing harder than usual. As soon as jovial Ben felt equal to the task of further announcing, he picked up the megaphone, shouting:

"As I didn't win, all the further events are postponed!"

There was stupefied silence for a few moments. Grown people and the students looked from one to another. Then a guffaw started that swelled to a chorus of laughter.

"The next event on the card," called Ben, satisfied with the effect of his joke, "is the free-for-all fancy skating event. The contestants will come before the judges one at a time. Each entrant is limited to two minutes, actual time."

There should have been some girls entered in this event, but there were none. Six H.S. boys from the different classes came forward.

"Fred Ripley loses his chance," muttered some one.

"He had his chance. A fellow who prefers to skate into the freeze is counted out," replied Thomp.

Just as the contestants were moving out Greg Holmes came hurrying down to the ice.

"Am I too late?" he called.

"Not if you think you've got anything good," replied Badger.

Greg promptly proceeded to put on his skates, covertly watching the performance of the first fellow to show off. It was good work that Greg watched, but he thought he could beat it.

"You'll have to go last on the list," nodded Ben, as Greg came skating up.

Greg merely nodded, though inwardly he grinned. "That just suits me," he told himself. "The fellow who skates last will be freshest in the minds of the judges."

When it came Greg's turn he avoided most of the fancy figures that the other fellows had shown off amid much applause. Still, Greg showed a bewildering assortment of "eights," "double-eights" and some magnificent work along the "turn promenade" order that Ripley had been doing before the accident.

Then Greg came in, promenading backward on his skates.

"I'm going to fall," he called to the judges, "but it will be intentional."

"Fall it is, then," nodded Sam Edgeworth, one of the judges.

Greg was moving jauntily along, still doing the backward promenade. Suddenly one of his skates appeared to catch against the other. Down went Greg, backwards. Despite his announcement the moment before, a sympathetic murmur went up from many of the onlookers.

But Greg, sitting down suddenly as he did, pivoted around like a streak. Throwing his hands back of his head, he sprang to his feet. At the first he was doing the forward promenade. The whole manoeuvre, including the fall, had occupied barely four seconds. Now, wheeling into the back promenade Greg glided before the judges.

"Time," called the holder of the watch.

"I'm willing," nodded Greg. "And I'm willing any contestant who wants should try my stunt before the verdict is given."

The conference between the judges did not last long and Greg got the decision.

"The freshman mile will come along later," announced Ben, through the megaphone. "The committee want to put in a freak race first."

The "freak" was a quarter mile, nearly go-as-you-please. In this race each contestant had on his left skate, but no skate on the right foot. The contestant who reached the finish line first won—"even if he slides on his back," Ben announced, sagely.

Tom Reade hurried onto the ice as one of the entrants in this race. He had practiced it well, and won it easily, securing a silver medal. Greg's prize had been a gold medal, but over this fact Tom allowed himself to feel no envy or disappointment.

Several other events came along in quick succession. Everyone seemed to forget that the freshman mile had not yet been skated.

It was called last on the list. Just as the skaters were moving forward some one detected a figure hurrying down the slope over the snow.

"Here comes Dick Prescott!"

"Is he going into the race after all?"

A lively burst of cheers greeted the freshman as he reached the edge of the ice.

Dick looked as cheery and as rosy as ever. No onlooker could see that Prescott's late adventure had injured him in the least.

"Going to race, Dick?" called some one.

"Surest thing," laughed the freshman, "if I can find my skates. If not, I'm going to try to borrow a pair of the right size."

"Here are your skates," called Laura Bentley, gliding forward over the ice. "I picked them up for you, and I've been holding 'em ever since.

"That's what I call mighty good of you," glowed Dick. "Thank you a thousand times."

Dick sat down on a wooden box. He could have had the services of half a dozen seniors to fasten on his skates, but he preferred to do it for himself.

Clamps adjusted, and skates tested, Dick struck off leisurely, going up before the starter and judges. These were grouped near the starting line.

"Standing start," announced Ben. "Each man exactly to the line. Pistol signal. False starts barred, and the usual penalties for fouling. Get on line, all!"

Then the starter moved forward, pistol in hand.

"On your marks!"

"Get set!"

Bang!

Dick, at the left end of the line, crouched forward somewhat. Nearly the whole of his right runner rested on the ice. His left foot was well forward, the toe of the skate dug well into the ice. His right arm pointed ahead, his left behind.

Crack! At the sound of the shot Dick let his right foot spring into the air. As it came down, ahead, he gave a vigorous thrust with his left. The style of start was his own, but it worked to a charm. A hearty cheer went up when the spectators saw that Dick was leading by five yards.

At the first turn, however, Prescott's adherents—and they were many this afternoon—felt a thrill of disappointment. Walter Hewlett, whose skating had been strong and steady so far, passed Dick at the turn.

"Hardly fair, after all," murmured several. "Of course, after what he's been through, no matter how much nerve Prescott may have, he can't be anything like up to his usual form."

Had Dick heard them he would have smiled. He knew that the skating was warming him up and taking away whatever of the chill had been left.

As they neared the second turn the distance between Dick and Hewlett was about fifteen yards. The other freshmen were far enough behind both not to appear to count.

Now Prescott turned on steam. He reached the second turn only eight yards behind Hewlett, and that latter freshman made the poorer turn.

Down the home stretch now! Dick began to work deep breathing for all he was worth. Instead of taking slow, deep breaths, he breathed rapidly, pumping his lungs full of air.

That rapid deep breathing started his heart to working faster, sent the blood bounding through his arteries.

It would have been exhausting if carried out too long. But now, on what was left of the home stretch, it acted almost like pumping oxygen into his lungs.

Swiftly the distance melted.

"Hurrah!" rang the yell. "There goes Prescott ahead!"

Not only ahead, but gaining in the lead. Five yards to the good, then ten, twelve, fifteen. Dick Prescott shot over the finish line a good eighteen yards ahead. Then the victor came to a stop, panting but happy.

Five minutes later, when all the congratulations were over, he skated up beside Laura Bentley.

"You saved my skates for me, Laura, and brought me luck all through. I want you to have the first ride on that toboggan."

XXI. THANKS SERVED WITH HATE

It didn't take long for the Gridley boys who were most interested in athletics to figure up that three out of the eight prizes offered had gone to the freshman class.

More than that, the three freshmen winners were all members of the firm of Dick & Co., Limited.

"Saturday's work, and some other things, show us that Dick & Co. are going to be heard from a whole lot in the athletics of future years at this school," Ben told Dick at recess Monday morning. "Whew! But I'm sorry I'm not going to be here to watch the progress of you freshmen!"

Monday afternoon, while he was eating the midday meal, just after school had been dismissed, Dick received, by messenger, a note from Lawyer Ripley, asking the young freshman to call at his office at three o'clock.

Though actually retired, the wealthy lawyer maintained an office in one of the big buildings on Main Street. To this office Mr. Ripley went once in a while, to transact business.

"As I haven't a dollar in the world," smiled young Prescott, "it is hardly likely that he has been engaged to bring a suit against me. Oh, hang it, I know! He means to thank me for hauling Fred out of the water. What an infernal nuisance!"

For a few minutes Dick was inclined to disregard the invitation. He spoke to his mother about it.

"Have you any good reason for not going?" asked Mrs. Prescott.

"No, mother; except that I don't like the Ripley crowd particularly. Then, besides, I have no use for being thanked. I'd have done as much for a tramp that I had never seen before."

"I am afraid you have reasons for disliking Fred Ripley," admitted Mrs. Prescott. "But has the elder Mr. Ripley ever given you any cause for disliking him?"

"No; of course not."

"Then wouldn't it be the part of courtesy for you to go, since he requests it?"

"But, if he wants to thank me, why shouldn't he come here?"

"My boy, it is one of the privileges of older persons to expect younger ones to come to them."

"I guess that's right," nodded Dick. "Oh, well, I'll go. But, if Mr. Ripley has anything to pass in the way of thanks, I hope he'll cut it short."

So, at three o'clock, Dick climbed the stairs and knocked at the office door.

The lawyer himself opened.

"Oh, how do you do, Prescott?" demanded Lawyer Ripley, holding out his hand. "I'm most heartily glad to see you. You didn't see anything of my indolent son on the street, did you?"

"No, sir," the freshman answered, adding, to himself:

"I should hope not!"

"Come into my private office won't you, Prescott?" asked the lawyer, leading the way through his outer office.

The elder Ripley placed a comfortable arm-chair for his freshman caller, asking him to be seated.

Though Lawyer Ripley was, ordinarily, a rather pompous and purseproud sort of man, it was plain that he realized a debt of gratitude, and meant to pay it as graciously as he knew how to do.

"You have performed a most valuable service for me, Prescott," began the Sawyer again, in a heavy, solemn voice.

"You are quite welcome to the service, Mr. Ripley, and I hope you won't think any more about it," Dick replied.

"But it is impossible that I forget it," replied the lawyer, raising his eyebrows in some astonishment. "You saved the life of my son, my only child."

"At not very much risk to myself, sir," smiled the freshman. "I was able, soon after, to go in and win a skating race."

"At not much risk?" repeated the lawyer. "Why, your life was in very considerable danger. Do you call that little?"

"Almost any of the High School fellows would have done it, Mr. Ripley."

"But none of them did."

"Because I happened to be right at hand, and jumped in first—that was all," Dick insisted.

"Young man, I am not going to allow you to make little of the great service that you did me. I—ah, here comes the young man we've been discussing." The lawyer changed the subject as Fred entered. "Frederick, you are late, and, on an occasion of this kind, I could hope that you would be more prompt."

"My watch was slow," replied Fred Ripley, using one hand to cover a slight yawn.

"Don't you see who is here?" demanded his father.

"Yes, sir."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"How do you do?" nodded Dick, for Lawyer Ripley was looking curiously from one boy to the other.

"Don't you—er—consider, Frederick, that it would be an excellent idea if you were to offer your hand to Mr. Prescott?" demanded the lawyer.

The ordeal was as distasteful to Dick as it could possibly have been to the Ripley heir. Yet Dick got quickly up out of his chair, accepting the slowly proffered hand of the sophomore.

"That's better," smiled the lawyer. "Now, I'll leave you two together for the moment."

The lawyer closed the door behind him as he stepped into the outer office.

Fred Ripley glanced covertly at Dick, who had remained standing. Even as big a sneak as young Ripley had shown himself at times to be, he knew perfectly well that he owed it, even to himself, to try to be gracious with the lad who had saved his life.

But Dick said nothing, nor did he glance particularly at the sophomore. That made it all the harder for Fred to find something to say. The clock in the room ticked. Dick, to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, strolled over to a window and stood looking out.

That, therefore, was the situation when Lawyer Ripley came back into the room.

"What a jovial, friendly pair!" railed the lawyer, who held a slip of paper in his hand, as he advanced toward the freshman.

"Prescott," declared the lawyer, "I can't tell you what is in my heart. I can't even pay you adequately for what you have done for me and for my boy. But I ask you to accept this as a slight indication, only, of what I feel."

Dick took the paper, glancing at it curiously. It was the lawyer's check for two hundred and fifty dollars.

"Accept it," begged the lawyer, in a rather pompous voice. "Do whatever you please with it."

Dick colored. "Whatever I please with it?" he asked, a bit unsteadily.

"Yes; certainly, of course," murmured the lawyer. "I have no doubt whatever that a live? healthy boy can find something to do with a check like that."

Flushing still more deeply, while Fred Ripley looked on, at first enviously, Dick Prescott tore the check into several pieces. The lawyer stared at him in amazement.

"I appreciate your intention, Mr. Ripley," Dick went on, his voice a bit husky, "and I thank you, sir. But I can't take any money."

"Can't take it?" repeated the astonished lawyer, while Fred Ripley fairly gasped.

"I can't accept money, sir, for an act of humanity."

"Oh! But I think I can convince you, my boy, that you can."

"I'm equally sure that you can't Mr. Ripley," persisted the freshman, smiling. "But again I thank you for the intention."

Lawyer Ripley was a good deal of a judge of human character. He began to feel sure that the freshman was speaking the truth.

Just at that moment some one entered the outer office. Mr. Ripley glanced out, then said:

"I shall have to ask you to excuse me for a few moments. Fred, of course you have just thanked Mr. Prescott again for his heroic act?"

"N-n-no, sir," stammered Fred.

"When I return I don't want to have to hear another answer like that," warned the lawyer, sternly. Then he closed the door behind him.

Dick turned, with a dry smile.

"Since you're under orders to thank me, Fred, get it over with quickly," laughed the freshman. "I'll help you all I can."

Young Ripley's better nature really was stirred for a moment.

"Of course I thank you, Prescott," he stammered. "It was a splendid thing for you to do. I—I don't know as I had any right to expect it, either, for I've been pretty mean to you."

"I know," replied Dick, with the same dry smile. "You put Tip Scammon up to the High School locker thefts, to get me in disgrace, and unlucky Tip had to go to jail for it."

Fred Ripley glared at the freshman with terror-stricken eyes.

Then, without warning, Fred made a leap for ward, to clutch Dick by the throat.

XXII. THE ONLY FRESHMEN AT THE SENIOR BALL

Side-stepping, the freshman put up one arm to ward off further attack.

"Come, don't start a fight here, Fred," Dick cautioned the other, in a low tone. "For one thing, you couldn't win anyway. Besides, your father would hear the racket and come in."

"How do you know I put Tip up to that job?" demanded young Ripley, his face as white as chalk. "Did Tip tell you all about it?"

"Not a word."

"Then you don't know," cried Fred, in sudden triumph.

"If I didn't," grinned Dick, "you've just confessed it."

"You tricked me—I mean it's a lie."

"No; it isn't, either," asserted Dick, coolly. "Though the second chap, in that mix-up in Stetson's alley one night, got away before I had time to recognize his face in the black darkness there, yet as I fell and grabbed for the chap's ankle, I noticed his trousers with the lavender stripe. I had seen those trousers on you before, Fred, and you're wearing them again at this minute."

Fred glanced downward, starting.

"You see," insisted the freshman, "there's no sense in denying that you put Tip up to the game that got him into the penitentiary."

"How many have you told this to?" demanded Fred, fright showing in his face.

"My chums suspect," Dick answered, frankly. "I'm pretty sure I haven't told anyone else."

"Good thing you haven't, then," retorted Fred, recovering some of his usual impudence. "My father is a lawyer, and he'd know how to make you smart if you started libelous yarns about me."

"Your father being a lawyer, I think he would also be likely to show an investigating turn of mind. You can put it up to your father if you want to, Fred."

Young Ripley winced. Prescott laughed lightly.

"Now, see here, Fred, I don't want to live on bad terms with anyone. You've got good points, I'm sure you have."

"Oh, thank you," rejoined the sophomore, with exaggerated sarcasm.

"And I'll be glad to begin being on good terms with you at any time, if you should ever really want such a thing," continued the freshman. "If you were a thoroughly good fellow, wholly on the level, like Badger, Thomp, Purcell, or any one of scores of fellows that we know, then I'd hate to know that you didn't like me. But, as to the kind of fellow you've sometimes shown yourself to be, Fred, I've been really glad that I wasn't your sort and didn't appeal to you."

At this style of talk the sophomore seemed all but crushed with mortification.

"Come, Fred," pursued Dick, not waiting for the other to answer, "be a different sort of chap. Make up your mind to go through the High School, and through life afterwards, dealing with everybody on the square. Be pleasant and honest—be a high-class fellow—and everyone will like you and seek your friendship. That's all I've got to say."

"It's quite enough to say," retorted Ripley, but he spoke in a low voice that had in it no trace of combative energy.

"Well, boys, how are matters going?" asked Lawyer Ripley, reentering. "Fred, have you remedied your boorishness by thanking Prescott?"

"Oh, yes, he has thanked me," Dick replied, cheerily. "And we've been chatting about—some other matters. And now, Mr. Ripley, if you will excuse me, I feel that I must run along."

I have other things that I really must attend to."

"Won't you be more sensible, and let me make you a duplicate to the check you tore up?" asked the lawyer.

"Thank you, sir; but I don't want to; couldn't, in fact. My father and mother would be ashamed of me if I took home a check for such a service. Good afternoon, Mr. Ripley. So long, Fred."

Dick went out of the lawyer's offices almost breezily. Fred even found the nerve to respond to Dick's parting salutation with something very close to an air of cordiality.

The instant he reached the street Dick took in several deep breaths.

"Whew! It seems mighty good to be in the fresh air once more, after being in the same room with Fred Ripley," muttered the freshman.

"Hello, Dickens, kid," called a voice from behind, and an arm rested on his shoulder.

"Hello, Ben," replied Prescott, looking around.

"I just wanted to say that the senior ball comes off Saturday night of this week. You're going to get one of the few freshman tickets. The ticket allows you to invite one of the girls. Now, remember, freshie, we depend upon you to be there."

Dick started to object. Well enough he knew that there would be few freshmen at the senior dance, which was the most exclusive affair in the High School year.

"You can't kick," rattled on Badger. "You'll get thrashed, if you do. Didn't I tell you that there'll be very few freshman tickets sent out? Only six, in fact. Dick & Co. are going to hog all the freshman tickets. That's largely on account of what you youngsters have done for football and athletics in general.

Lad, this is the last year that the seniors will have a chance to see anything of Dick & Co. So you simply can't stay away from the senior ball. Not a single member of Dick & Co. can be excused from attending."

"We'll see about it," replied Dick.

"No, you won't! It has all been seen to. The six of you are going to be on hand—with six stunning girls, too!"

"I thank you, anyway; I thank you all heartily for this very unusual honor," Dick protested.

"That's all right, then; it's settled," proclaimed Ben Badger, with an air of finality. "The dance begins at nine. It's all stated on the ticket."

By the next day it was settled that Dick & Co. were going to attend. Besides the senior class, a good many of the juniors were also invited. There was to be a fair sprinkling of sophomores, but of the freshmen Dick & Co. were the only ones invited.

Up to the middle of the week Fred Ripley felt rather certain that he was to be invited. Then, feeling less certain, he went to Thomp and Badger.

"Say, fellows," began Fred, with a confident air, "I just want to mention the fact that I haven't received a card to the senior ball yet."

"Maybe you will, next year," suggested Thomp coolly.

Fred flushed, then went white.

"Oh, very well, if you mean than I'm to be left out," grunted Ripley.

"I'm afraid, Fred," hinted Badger, "that you were overlooked until the full number of soph tickets had been issued. It was an oversight, of course, but I'm afraid it's too late to remedy it."

Fred Ripley went away, furious with anger, for he already knew, as did everyone else in Gridley H.S., that Dick & Co. were to be among the elect at the senior ball. And Fred had been so sure of a card to the ball that he had gone to the length of inviting Clara Deane to accompany him to the affair. That young lady had most joyously accepted.

Now, as he walked home with Miss Clara this afternoon, Fred suddenly broke out:

"I say, Clara, you don't very much mind if we don't go to the senior ball, do you?"

"Yes," Miss Deane retorted. "Why, what's the matter, Fred. Didn't you receive an invitation?"

"Of course, I could get an invite," lied young Ripley. "But the plain truth is, I want to keep out of the affair."

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Clara, gazing at her escort in astonishment.

"Haven't you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"That mucker crowd, who call themselves Dick &s Co., have been invited."

"There's no harm in that, is there?" asked Clara Deane, quietly. "Why, they're quite popular young fellows; certainly the best-liked freshmen."

"Well, I don't like them," retorted Fred, sullenly.

"And so, after inviting me to go to the ball with you, now you're going to invite me to remain at home instead?"

"Oh, of course, if you really want to go, I'll see about it," muttered the sophomore.

But he didn't see about it, nor did Clara Deane again refer to the matter. However, being an enterprising girl, Miss Deane was not long in discovering that Fred was not going to the senior affair for the very good reason that he couldn't possibly get himself written down on the invitation list.

Apart from the moral side of the question it is rarely worth while to lie—to a girl, especially.

XXIII. THE NITROGLYCERINE MYSTERY SPEAKS UP

In one phase of its social life Gridley H.S. was especially sensible. Since only a few of the boys could be expected to be able to afford evening dress suits, it was a rule that none, even the seniors, should appear at any of the class functions in these fashionable garments.

Hence, Dick & Co., when they arrived with their girl friends, did not feel out of place on the score of clothes.

Each of the freshmen wore his "Sunday" suit, and each wore a flower at his lapel.

Unfortunately, no limitations were placed on the dress of the girls. Therefore, while some rather plain frocks were in evidence, many of the girls were rather elaborately attired.

Laura Bentley, though her father's means rather permitted, did not "overdo" in respect of dress. Dick felt sure, however, as he offered his arm, and conducted her out on the floor, that Laura was quite the prettiest, sweetest-looking girl there.

All of Dick's chums felt satisfied with their partners of the evening, for each young man had invited the girl whose company he was sure to enjoy most.

Somehow, though they did not feel just out of place at the senior ball, the six young freshmen and their partners, all of the freshman class, happened to come together at one end of the hall.

"What do you all say," proposed Dick, "if, in the grand march, we freshies keep together, six couples all in one section?"

"We'll feel more comfortable, surely," grinned Dave Darrin.

"Why? Are you scared?" asked Laura, looking at him archly.

"Not so that the band-leader could notice it," replied Dave. "Yet I think we'd all be making more noise if this were a freshman dance."

"But the freshmen don't have a dance until just before commencement time," put in Belle Meade, who was there with Dave.

"Anyway, the seniors are not so very important," laughed Laura. "the average age of the freshman class is about fourteen or fifteen. The seniors are only three years older Pooh! Who's afraid?"

"I am," broke in Ben Badger, coming up behind them. "Desperately afraid."

"You? Of what?" asked Laura, turning around upon him.

"Afraid that I'm too late to write my autograph on your dance card," admitted Ben, with a rueful smile.

"But you're a senior," murmured Laura.

"Is that a crime?" demanded Ben, in a tone of wonder.

"Why, we were planning," put in Belle, "that the freshmen boys and freshmen girls should dance together this evening."

"I see a ray of hope," protested Ben. "I'm going to college, so I shall be a freshman again next year. Isn't that enough to entitle me to one—square—dance, anyway?"

Without waiting for another reply, Ben caught up Laura's card, and looked it over.

"May I have number nine, please?" he begged.

"Yes, thank you," Laura answered, so Badger scribbled his name.

"My hopes are rising," cried Frank Thompson, gliding into the group.

Thereupon other seniors and juniors came up. It wasn't long before Dick & Co. had to bestir themselves in order to be sure of having dances enough with the girls of their own class.

"You can retaliate, you know, by going after some of the girls of the two upper classes," suggested Laura.

"I don't believe I'll try that," Dick replied. "It's all right for the upper class boys to want to dance with some of the freshman girls, especially when the freshman girls are such a charming lot——"

"Our thanks!" And six girls bowed low before him.

"But it would be regarded, I'm afraid, as rank impudence, if we little freshmen wanted to dance with senior or junior girls. When a freshman is in doubt the tip is 'don't!'"

The orchestra was playing a lively waltz that made most of the girls and many of the boys tap their feet restlessly.

The perfume of flowers was in the air. Lively chatter and merry laughter rang out.

"This is the brighter side of school life," murmured Dick, enthusiastically.

"One of the brighter sides," suggested Laura. "Your remark, as you made it, sounds ungrateful. It is a delight to be a High School student. There are no really dark sides to the life."

"But some sides are much brighter than others," Dick insisted. "I like study, and am glad I have a chance to go further in it than most young people get. Yet these class dances give us something that algebra, or chemistry, or geometry can't supply us."

"This is the brightest spot of the year," put in Tom Reade, in a low voice. "It must be the brightness of the girls' eyes that fill this part of the room with so much radiance."

"Bravo!" laughed Laura and Belle together.

"Have you been quiet the last fifteen minutes on purpose to think that up?" Dave asked enviously.

"Tom can say lots of nicer things than that," spoke up Bessie Trenholm, half shyly.

"Oh, can he?" demanded Harry Hazelton. "Please search your memory then, Bessie. Let's have a few specimens of what Tom can say under the influence of luminous eyes."

Bessie blushed. When she tried to speak she stammered.

"I—I guess I can't remember anything," she pleaded.

Freshman laughter rang out merrily at this. But the waltz had ended, and now the prompter was calling for the grand march.

"Let's find our places," urged Dan Dalzell.

"We're on the side, so we might as well remain right where we are," proposed Dick. "That is, unless the floor manager or some aide comes along and chases us to the rear of the procession."

But no one interfered with the freshmen taking their places in the line just where they stood.

As the grand march ended the orchestra drew breath once or twice, then burst forth in a gallop. Dick offered Laura his guidance, and away they flew together. By the time the gallop ended the freshman couples were rather well scattered over the hall.

Dick danced well. He enjoyed himself immensely. So did his partners. Some of the freshman girls finally drifted off with upper class partners.

Toward midnight, Dick, alone, drifted to Dave Darrin and Harry Hazelton.

"I haven't a thing to do, now, for four dances, unless some senior drops dead," Dick remarked.

"I'm in as bad a plight," admitted Harry.

"And I," nodded Dave.

It wasn't many moments ere the other three partners happened along, all disengaged.

"We don't want to be wall-flowers," muttered Dick. "It's going to be more than half an hour from now before any of us are due to dance again. See here, fellows, what do you say to our getting our hats and coats and getting out into the air for a while? A ballroom, isn't the worst place in the world, but I'm so much a fresh air fellow, that I'm half stifling here."

"Good! Come along to the coatroom, then," nodded Greg Holmes.

"Going home?" asked Laura Bentley, in a tone of protest, as she whirled by on Thompson's arm and saw Dick & Co. headed for the coatroom.

She was gone before Dick could answer by word of mouth. But he saw her regarding him from the other end of the room, and smilingly shook his head.

"Feels good to be out, doesn't it?" asked Dan Dalzell, as the freshman sextette struck the open air.

"Yes; but what has happened to the blooming town?" demanded Greg Holmes.

Even this Main Street of Gridley presented a curious look. It was a freezingly cold December night and it looked to the freshman as though the senior ball must be the only live thing left in the little city.

All the stores were closed, and had been for some time. All lights were out in the nearest residences. At first the boys thought they beheld held a policeman standing in front of the First National Bank, half a block away, but a closer look revealed the fact that he was only some belated loiterer—the sole human being in sight save themselves.

"Come off this other way, and let's go down the side street," proposed Dick.

"Yes; if we're to find signs of life anywhere, it will have to be on the smaller side streets," observed Greg Holmes.

Music wafted to them from the hall.

"There's life going on up there," remarked Dave. "We left it behind us."

"It isn't life," laughed Dick, "when some other fellow is dancing with your girl."

Along the side street the first corner was at the beginning of a broad back alley that ran parallel with Main Street.

Along this alleyway they turned.

"By looking up at the windows," suggested Prescott, "we may get some glimpses of the dance that are not so apparent when you're up in the hall."

True, as they passed by the rear of the dance hall they caught some glimpses of moving couples going by the windows, but that was all.

"And I want to remark," grunted Tom Reade, "that it's cold outdoors tonight."

"An outdoor fellow like you ought not to mind that," chaffed Dick

"Oh, I'll stand it as long as the rest of you do," challenged Reade.

Dick and Dave were in the lead, the other chums coming behind them in couples.

So Prescott and Dave Darrin were the first to catch a glimpse down the short lane that led from the alleyway to the back of one of the buildings.

Here stood a man, with cap drawn well down over his forehead. He was beside an automobile—a big black touring car.

Dick saw and guessed. He almost jumped. Giving Dave's arm a quick squeeze, Prescott marched by without appearing to pay any heed to the man and the autocar.

Once past the lane, Dick kept on walking, but he turned and walked backwards. He signed to the other four, putting a finger to his lips for silence.

All six of the chums had guessed swiftly what the man and the auto, at that particular point, must mean!

"Keep walking, fellows," whispered Dick, as the other startled freshmen reached him. "And laugh—loudly!"

Their forced laughter rang out. Then Dick, again at the head with Dave, started in on the first bars of the latest popular song. Again the chums understood, and joined in with a will.

When he had gone two hundred feet further, Dick countermarched his little force. Still singing they went back by the head of the lane, but not one member of Dick & Co. allowed himself to glance down the lane at man or automobile.

Then the song died out.

"I say, fellows," called Dave Darrin, banteringly, "we'd better get back to the hall if we don't want to find other fellows going home with our girls."

"I'll fight before I'll let that happen," proclaimed Dick Prescott.

"Hustle, then!" urged Dan.

Once out of the alleyway and into the side street the freshmen halted for an instant.

"Fellows," spoke Dick Prescott, "you all know what that means? One lookout in front of the bank, and another at the rear. An auto at the rear, too. Greg, you hustle to the police station as fast as you can make your feet fly. No use trying to find a place open where you can telephone. Come, the rest of you fellows."

There was a side entrance to the hall from the side street.

Dick and his four remaining chums ran in at this side door, that the man in front of the bank might not see them.

Up the stairs the freshmen rushed.

"Dave, take care of the orchestra," panted Dick. "The music mustn't stop for an instant after we get the fellows out."

Something in the looks of the five freshmen, as they burst into the hall attracted the attention of nearly everyone present.

Dick held up his hand as a sign for the dancing to stop. But Dave Darrin was already up on the platform, talking in the leader's ear, and the music did not cease.

As quickly as could be Dick got the upper classmen away from the girls, at the lower end of the hall.

"What is it? What can be the matter?" all the girls wanted to know.

But Dick called out, loudly enough to make himself heard:

"Young ladies, it is highly important that the music and the sounds of moving feet be kept up. Won't you young ladies please dance with each other until we bet back? Then we'll tell you an interesting story—if you're good."

In the meantime Tom Reade was telling Thompson, Badger and Edgeworth, and as many more as could get close enough, what had happened.

"See here, fellows," spoke Thomp, "there's a big chance fer the crowd to win fun and glory for good old Gridley H.S. Seniors and Dick & Co. will steal down the alleyway, and be upon that lookout before he can say 'batter-cakes and coffee.' Juniors and sophs go in a bunch, prepared to catch the lookout on Main Street. All get your coats and come softly down the side stairs!"

In many gatherings the speed and comprehension with which all the Gridley High School boys acted would have been regarded as marvelous. But they were always in training for athletics. Team work and the spirit of speed and discipline prevailed among them.

Almost in a jiffy, so it seemed, the masculine part of the senior dance party was out on the sidewalk of the side street.

"Don't you juniors and sophs show yourselves on Main Street for a full sixty seconds, unless you hear us raise a row at the back of the bank," advised Dick.

Somehow, none of the upper classmen seemed to think it strange for young Prescott thus to take command. He and his chums had discovered the attempt on the bank, and it seemed natural, just now, for the freshman leader to lead the whole school.

On tiptoe Dick and his chums led the way into the alley, the seniors following just as stealthily.

When the freshmen were within thirty feet of the lane Dick Prescott held up his hand, then signed to all hands to make the grand rush forward.

Just an instant before the High School boys could start, the earth suddenly shook and swayed under them, while on the frosty night air there came a great, sullen, fearsome—

BOOM!

That was the explosion designed to blow open the door of the bank's vault.

XXIV. THE CAPTURE OF THE BANK ROBBERS

In answer, a rousing defiance, the Gridley H.S. yell was roared out. And by this time, seniors Dick & Co. were in full motion.

"Four—thirteen—eleven!" bellowed Sam Edgeworth.

The football men heard that signal and understood the application of it.

Though the flying wedge is now no longer tolerated in football, there are other plays evolved from it, and the signal called for one. Edgeworth himself formed the point of the wedge.

"Freshies in the center!" he bawled back lustily.

As the High School crowd rushed around the corner, giving their vocal chords full play, Dick and his chums were hustled inside of the inverted "V" formation.

It was a human battering ram that launched itself into the lane—filling that narrow passage, choking it.

One of the bank robbers was still on the lookout duty. At the first sound he had drawn his revolver, prepared to shoot right and left. But this avalanche of torsos, arms and legs was more than the fellow had bargained for.

If it be true that a community can't be indicted, then it is still truer that a community can't be murdered. The armed rascal gasped at the magnitude of his task of defense.

In another second he had been bowled clean over off his feet, and a half a dozen seniors were reaching for his weapon.

As Dick Prescott and his chums got out of the wedge they made a dash for the automobile.

At that same instant the air bore to them the battle-yell of juniors and sophs at the front of the bank.

The rear door of the building was yanked hastily open. Two masked men shot the rays of their bulls-eye lanterns out into the lane, while their right hands held revolvers.

Bang-bang! Bang-bang!

The rear door slammed, the robbers retreating behind that barrier.

In the first moment the High School boys themselves were a good deal startled, though they didn't make any effort to run.

Then the news pulsed swiftly through the senior crowd. The noise hadn't come from pistols. Dick & Co. had shut off any possibility of automobile flight by falling upon the tires with their pocket knives. Any robbers that could bluff their way through the crowd and start the engine would have to hobble along on flat tires!

The rear lookout of the robber band was now a safe prisoner in the hands of four stalwart seniors. Ben Badger had the fellow's revolver.

Out in front of the bank the juniors and sophs held the enemy at bay inside. The lookout, after trying to hold up the rush at the point of the pistol, had turned without firing, and had tried to get away. But four of the juniors had sprinted after him and caught him.

Thus the forces stood. Inside the bank building were at least two of the robbers, armed and presumably desperate. Yet they knew they couldn't shoot their way out through a multitude, either at the front or the back of the building.

On the other hand, the High School boys didn't care about rushing into a darkness that was held by armed men.

Thus the opposing sides stood holding each other at bay until new actors came upon the scene—the police reserves.

Four officers ran to the front of the bank. Chief Coy and four more appeared in the lane among the High School boys.

"Now, young gentlemen, jump out, if you please!" rang the chief's order, "We've got to get inside at those fellows, and there may be a good many bullets flying."

"Huh!" objected Thomp. "We penned that gang up for you. Now, are you going to chase us off just as the real fun starts?"

"If you stay, it'll be at your own risk, then," answered Chief Coy, with a rather pleased grin, for he had followed the fortunes of Gridley H.S. on the football gridiron, and well enough he knew the school grit.

Pushing their way through, the police made their way to the closed rear door.

"Within, there!" summoned Coy, knocking lustily on the door. "You are surrounded, and may as well give up. Open the door, and come out, and you'll be safe."

There was a pause. Then a gruff voice demanded:

"If we open you don't fire on us?"

"Not if you come out with your hands held up high."

"All right, then. Give us time to open the door."

The light from the police dark lanterns played on the door as it swung open. Then two very crestfallen robbers, holding their hands well aloft, came out on the steps.

The windows of the hall, some distance away, had been thrown up. A lot of white-gowned girls, some with covered heads, and some not, looked wonderingly out at the spot lighted up by the dark lanterns.

Chief Coy and two of his officers quickly entered the bank. It was ten minutes before they reappeared.

"Somebody has done us the good turn of discovering this thing just in time tonight," announced Coy, with a grave face. "The vault door is blown entirely off, and the vault is stacked high with sacks of money. Who first discovered this thing anyway?"

"Don't you know?" called Ben Badger.

From a score of throats at once the information broke forth:

"Dick & Co.!"

"It'll be a good night's work for Dick & Co., then, when the bank directors meet" declared Chief Coy. "In three or four minutes more these robbers would have been going sixty miles an hour with an automobile loaded down to the guards with real money!"

The police party being large enough to take care of everything, it was not many minutes more before the High School boys were back in the hall. It took half an hour, however, for the young men to gratify the natural curiosity of the girls. At last the orchestra leader, tiring of the long delay, passed the word to his musicians. Then the music pealed out for that good, stirring old eulogy:

"For he's a jolly good fellow!"

In an instant bright-faced boys and girls caught up the refrain, making the hall shake with the din of their voices.

In the midst of it Thomp and Badger made a rush for Dick Prescott, caught him, and rushed him to the platform. But they had to hold him there.

"Speech! speech!" roared the boy and girl assemblage. There was a volley of hand-clapping.

But Dick, as soon as he could make himself heard, responded:

"You've got my number—nothing but the freshman class. When a freshman is in doubt he doesn't dare do it!"

Suddenly turning, Dick bolted for the floor once more. Then the next number on the dance programme began, and laughter reigned.

But these events had not been in the dance programme, and it was now late. For an hour or more the chaperons had been fretting, so they brought the dance to a close. Then followed the merry bustle of departure, the hasty goodbyes, the rattling of wheels through the sleeping town and all was quiet in Gridley.

But many a household was awakened to hear the story of the attempted burglary and the part that Dick & Co. had taken in preventing it.

XXV. CONCLUSION

It isn't all play in a High School. A vast amount of study has to be mastered. There are nerve-racking examinations. It is a tremendously busy life despite its sport.

So here we would better take leave of Gridley H.S. so far as this volume is concerned.

It was soon known that, had not Dick & Co. taken their little walk the robbers would have gotten away with one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in cash.

As it was, however, all four men were in the police toils, and they were presently sent to the penitentiary, where they are serving long terms.

The bank directors did vote to reward the H.S. boys as individuals, but Dick & Co. and all the upper classmen refused to accept anything for their own pockets.

In despair, the directors finally hit upon the scheme of subscribing one thousand dollars to the funds of the Athletics Committee.

The catching of the bank robbers solved the nitroglycerine mystery. One of the safe-blowing quartette was recognized by the police as having been in Gridley at the time when that nitroglycerine package was received at the express office. Had they gotten their box in safety the robbers would have entered the bank that night, and there might have been a different story—one of great loss to the bank.

Fred Ripley? His further story belongs to the following volume.

Dick & Co. went through their freshman year with credit all around.

When next we meet them we shall find them sophomores, with all the privileges of upper classmen. We shall meet these young sophomores in a sparkling tale of High School life and doings, ambitions and work, sports and pastimes. The next volume will be published under the title: "The High School Pitcher; or Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond." This will be a rousing story of baseball in particular, but likewise replete with other situations of absorbing interest to all high school boys and girls.

THE END

THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER

or

Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond

CONTENTS

I. The Principal Hears Something About Pennies

II. Dick Takes Up His Pen

III. Mr. Cantwell Thinks Twice—Or Oftener

IV. Dave Warns Tip Scammon

V. Ripley Learns That the Piper Must be Paid

VI. The Call to the Diamond—Fred Schemes

VII. Dave Talks with One Hand

VIII. Huh? Woolly Crocheted Slippers

IX. Fred Pitches a Bombshell into Training Camp

X. Dick & Co. Take a Turn at Feeling Glum

XI. The Third Party's Amazement

XII. Trying out the Pitchers

XIII. The Riot Call and Other Little Things

XIV. The Steam of the Batsman

XV. A Dastard's Work in the Dark

XVI. The Hour of Tormenting Doubt

XVII. When the Home Fans Quivered

XVIII. The Grit of the Grand Old Game

XIX. Some Mean Tricks Left Over

XX. A Tin Can for the Yellow Dog

XXI. Dick is Generous Because It's Natural

XXII. All Roads Lead to the Swimming Pool

XXIII. The Agony of the Last Big Game

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE PRINCIPAL HEARS SOMETHING ABOUT "PENNIES"

Clang!

"Attention, please."

The barely audible droning of study ceased promptly in the big assembly room of the Gridley High School.

The new principal, who had just stepped into the room, and who now stood waiting behind his flat-top desk on the platform, was a tall, thin, severe-looking man of thirty-two or three.

For this year Dr. Carl Thornton, beloved principal for a half-score of years, was not in command at the school. Ill health had forced the good old doctor to take at least a year's rest, and this stranger now sat in the Thornton chair.

"Mr. Harper," almost rasped out Mr. Cantwell's voice, "stop rustling that paper."

Harper, a little freshmen, who had merely meant to slip the paper inside his desk, and who was not making a disturbing noise thereby, flushed pink and sat immobile, the paper swinging from one hand.

From the principal's attitude and his look of seriousness, something unusual was pending. Some of the girls permitted their apprehension to be seen. On the faces of several of the boys rested a look of half defiance, for this principal was unpopular, and, by the students, was considered unjust.

"It being now in the early part of December," went on Mr. Cantwell, "we shall, on Monday, begin rehearsing the music for the special exercises to be held in this school on the day before Christmas. To that end, each of you found, on returning from recess, the new Christmas music on your desk."

Mr. Cantwell paused an instant for this important information to sink in. Several slight, little sighs of relief escaped the students, especially from the girls' side of the great room. This speech did not presage anything very dreadful to come.

"This sheet music," continued Mr. Cantwell, "is to be sold to the pupils at cost to the Board of Education. This cost price is fifteen cents."

Again Mr. Cantwell paused. It was a trick of his, a personal peculiarity. Then be permitted himself a slight smile as he added:

"This being Friday, I will ask you all to be sure to bring, on Monday morning, the money, which you will pay to me. Don't forget, please; each of you bring me his little fifteen pennies. Now, return to your studies until the beginning of the fourth period is announced."

As he bent his head low behind a bulky textbook, Dan Dalzell, of the sophomore class, glanced over at Dick Prescott with sparkling mischief gleaming in his eyes.

Dick, who was now a sophomore, and one of the assured leaders in sports and fun, guessed that Dan Dalzell was hatching another of the wild schemes for which Dalzell was somewhat famous. Dick even guessed that he knew about what was passing in Dan's mind.

Though moderate whispering was permitted, at need, in the assembly room, there was no chance for Dick and Dan to pass even a word at this time, for almost immediately the bell for the fourth period of the morning's work sounded, and the sections rose and filed out to the various recitation rooms.

To readers of the preceding volume in this series, Dick & Co. will need no introduction. All six of the youngsters were very well introduced in "The High School Freshmen."

Such readers will remember their first view of Dick & Co. With brown-haired Dick Prescott as leader, the other members of this unique firm of High School youngsters, were Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Harry Hazelton, Gregory Holmes and Dave Darrin.

The six had been chums at the Central Grammar School, and had stuck together like burrs through the freshman year at the Gridley High School. In fact, even in their freshmen period, when new students are not expected to have much to say, and are given no chance at the school athletics, Dick & Co. had made themselves abundantly felt.

Our readers will recall how the Board of Education had some notion of prohibiting High School football, despite the fact that the Gridley H.S. eleven was one of the best in the United States. Readers will also recall the prank hatched by Dick & Co., by means of which the Board was quickly shown how unpopular such a move would be in the city.

Our readers will also recollect that, though freshmen were barred from active part in sports, yet Dick & Co. found the effective way of raising plentiful funds for the Athletics Committee. In the annual paper chase the freshmen hounds, under Dick Prescott's captaincy, beat the sophomore hares—for the first time in many years. In the skating events, later on, Dick and his chums captured, for the freshman class, three of the eight events. From the start, Dick & Co. had shown great ingenuity in "boosting" football, in return for which, many of the usual restrictions on freshmen were waived where Dick & Co. were concerned.

In the nearly three months, now, that the new school year had gone along, Dick & Co. had proved that, as sophs, they were youngsters of great importance in the student body. They were highly popular with most of their fellow-students; but of course that very popularity made them some enemies among those who envied or disliked them.

For one thing, neither Dick nor any of his partners came of families of any wealth. Yet it was inevitable that some of the boys and girls of Gridley H.S. should come from families of more or less wealth.

It is but fair to say that most of these scions of the wealthier families were agreeable, affable and democratic—in a word, Americans without any regard to the size of the family purse.

A few of the wealthier young people, however, made no secret of their dislike for smiling, happy, capable Dick & Co. One of the leaders in this feeling was Fred Ripley, son of a wealthy, retired lawyer.

During the skating events of the preceding winter, Dick Prescott, aided by his chums, had saved the life of Ripley, who had gone through thin ice. However, so haughty a young man as Fred Ripley, though he had been slightly affected by the brave generosity, could not quite bring himself to regard Dick as other than an interloper in High School life.

Ripley had even gone so far as to bribe Tip Scammon, worthless, profligate son of the honest old janitor of the High School, to commit a series of robberies from the locker rooms in the school basement while Dick carried the key as monitor there. The "plunder" had been found in Dick's own room at home, and the young man had been suspended from the High School for a while. Thanks, however, to Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, two girls then freshmen and now sophs, Tip had been run down. Then the police made Tip confess, and he was sent away to the penitentiary for a short term. Tip, however, refused to the last to name his accomplice. Dick knew that Ripley was the accomplice, but kept his silence, preferring to fight all his own battles by himself.

So Fred Ripley was now a junior, in good standing as far as scholarship and school record went.

So far, during this new year, Ripley had managed to smother his hatred for Dick & Co., especially for Dick himself.

Lessons and recitations on this early December morning went off as usual. In time the hands of the clock moved around to one o'clock in the afternoon, at which time the High School closed for the day.

The partners of Dick & Co. went down the steps of the building and all soon found their way through the surging crowds of escaped students. This sextette turned down one of the streets and trudged along together. At first several of the other High School boys walked along near them. Finally, however, the crowd thinned away until only Dick & Co. were together.

"Dan," said Dick, smilingly, "something struck you hard this morning, when Mr. Cantwell asked us all to bring the music-money on Monday."

"He didn't say exactly 'money,'" retorted Dan Dalzell, quickly. "What Prin. did say was that each one of us was to bring fifteen pennies."

"Yes, I remember," laughed Dick.

"Now, we couldn't have held that mob when school let out," pursued Dan. "And now it's too late. But say, if the Prin. had only sprung that on us before recess——"

"Well, suppose he had?" interrupted Greg Holmes, a trifle impatiently.

"Why, then," retorted Dan, mournfully, "we could have passed word around, at recess, to have everybody bring just what the Prin. called for—pennies!"

"Hm!" grinned Dave Darrin, who was never slow to see the point of anything. "Then you had a vision of the unpopular Prin. being swamped under a deluge of pennies—plain, individual little copper cents?"

"That's it!" agreed Dan. "But now, we won't see more than a few before we go to school again Monday. Oh—wow! What a chance that takes away from us. Just imagine the Prin. industriously counting away at thousands of pennies, and a long line of boy and girl students in line, each one waiting to pass him another handful of pennies! Say, can you see the Prin.—just turning white and muttering to himself? But there's no chance to get the word around, now!"

"We don't need to get the word around," smiled Dick. "If we passed the word around, it might get to the Prin.'s ears before Monday, and he'd hatch up some way to head us off."

"If you can see how to work the trick at this late hour, you can see further than I can," muttered Dan, rather enviously.

"Oh, Dick has the scheme hatching, or he wouldn't talk about it," declared Dave Darrin, confidently.

"Why, if all you want is to send the whole student body on Monday morning, each with fifteen copper cents to hand the Prin., that can be fixed up easily enough," Dick pronounced, judicially.

"How are we going to do it?" asked Dalzell, dubiously.

"Well, let us see how many pennies would be needed? There are close to two hundred and fifty students, but a few might refuse to go into the trick. Let us say two hundred and forty times fifteen. That's thirty-six hundred, isn't it? That means we want to get thirty-six dollars' worth of pennies. Well, we'll get them!"

"We will?" demanded Dan, with a snort. "Dick, unless you've got more cash on hand than the rest of us then I don't believe a dragnet search of this crowd would turn up two dollars. Thirty-six? That's going some and halfway back!"

"There are three principal ways of buying goods of any kind," Dick continued. "One way is with cash——"

"That's the street we live on!" broke in Harry Hazelton, with a laugh.

"The second way," Dick went on, "is to pay with a check. But you must have cash at the bank behind the check, or you get into trouble. Now the third way is to buy goods on credit."

"That's just as bad," protested Dan. "Where, in the whole town, could a bunch of youngsters like us, get thirty-six dollars' worth of real credit?"

"I can," declared Dick, coolly.

"You? Where? With your father?"

"No; Dad rarely takes in much in the way of pennies. I don't suppose he has two dollars' worth of pennies on hand at any time. But, fellows, you know that 'The Morning Blade' is a one cent paper. Now, the publisher of 'The Blade' must bank a keg of pennies every day in the week. I can see Mr. Pollock, the editor, this afternoon, right after luncheon. He has probably sent most of the pennies to bank today, but I'll ask him if he'll have to-morrow's pennies saved for us."

"Say, if he'll only do that!" glowed Dan, his eyes flashing.

"He will," declared Dave Darrin. "Mr. Pollock will do anything, within reason, that Dick asks."

"Now, fellows, if I can put this thing through, we can meet in my room to-morrow afternoon at one o'clock. Pennies come in rolls of fifty each, you know. We'll have to break up the rolls, and make new ones, each containing fifteen pennies."

Dave Darrin stopped where he was, and began to laugh. Tom Reade quickly joined in. The others were grinning.

"Oh, say, just for one look at Prin.'s face, if we can spring that job on him!" chuckled Harry Hazelton.

"We can," announced Dick, gravely. "So go home and enjoy your dinners, fellows. If you want to meet on the same old corner on Main Street, at half-past two to-day, we'll go in a body to 'The Blade' office and learn what Mr. Pollock has to say about our credit."

"Your credit, you mean," corrected Dave.

After dinner Dick & Co. met as agreed. Arrived at "The Blade" office it was decided that Dick Prescott should go in alone to carry on the negotiation. He soon came out again, wearing a satisfied smile and carrying a package under one arm.

"If I'm any good at guessing," suggested Dave, "you put the deal over."

"Mr. Pollock agreed, all right," nodded Dick. "I have fourteen dollars here. He'll let us have the rest to-morrow."

They hurried back to Dick's room, over the bookstore that was run by Mr. and Mrs. Prescott.

"Whew, but this stuff is heavy," muttered Dick, dumping the package on the table. "Mr. Pollock sent out to the pressroom and had some paper cut of just the size that we shall need for wrappers."

"Did you tell Pollock what we are going to do?" asked Greg Holmes.

"Not exactly, but he guessed that some mischief was on. He wanted to know if it was anything that would make good local reading in 'The Blade,' so I told him I thought it would be worth a paragraph or two, and that I'd drop around Monday afternoon and give him the particulars. That was all I said."

Inside the package were three "sticks" of the kind that are used for laying the little coins in a row before wrapping.

"Now, one thing we must be dead careful about, fellows," urged Dick, as he undid the package, "is to be sure that we get an exact fifteen coins in each wrapper. If we got in more, we'd be the losers. If we put less than fifteen cents in any wrapper, then we're likely to be accused of running a swindling game."

So every one of the plotters was most careful to count the coins. It was not rapid work, and only half the partners could work at any one time. They soon caught the trick of wrapping, however, and then the little rolls began to pile up.

Saturday afternoon Dick & Co. were similarly engaged. Nor did they find the work too hard. Americans will endure a good deal for the sake of a joke.

Monday morning, shortly after half-past seven, Dick and his chums had stationed themselves along six different approaches to the High School. Each young pranker had his pockets weighted down with small packages, each containing fifteen pennies.

Purcell, of the junior class, was the first to pass Dick Prescott.

"Hullo, Purcell," Dick greeted the other, with a grin. "Want to see some fun?"

"Of course," nodded the junior. "What's going?"

"You remember that Prin. asked us, last Friday, to bring in our fifteen pennies for the Christmas music?"

"Of course. Well, I have my money in my pocket."

"In pennies?" insisted Dick.

"Well, no; of course not. But I have a quarter, and I guess Prin. can change that."

Dick quickly explained the scheme. Purcell, with a guffaw, purchased one of the rolls.

"Now, see here," hinted Dick, "there'll be such a rush, soon, that we six can't attend to all the business. Won't you take a dozen rolls and peddle them? I'll charge 'em to you, until you can make an accounting."

Purcell caught at the bait with another laugh. Dick noted Purcell's name on a piece of paper, with a dollar and eighty cents charged against it.

All the other partners did the same with other students. With such a series of pickets out around the school none of the student body got through without buying pennies, except Fred Ripley and Clara Deane. They were not asked to buy.

Meanwhile, up in the great assembly room a scene was going on that was worth looking at.

Abner Cantwell had seated himself at his desk. Before him lay a printed copy of the roll of the student body. It was the new principal's intention to check off each name as a boy or girl paid for the music. Knowing that he would have a good deal of currency to handle, the principal had brought along a satchel for this morning.

First of all, Harper came tripping into the room. He went to his desk with his books, then turned and marched to the principal's desk.

"I've brought the money for the music, Mr. Cantwell."

"That's right, Mr. Harper," nodded the principal.

The little freshman carefully deposited his fifteen pennies on the desk. They were out of the roll. Dick & Co. had cautioned each investor to break the wrapper, and count the pennies before moving on.

Two of the seniors presently came in. They settled with pennies. Then came Laura Bentley and Belle Meade. Their pennies were laid on the principal's desk.

"Why, all pennies, so far!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell. "I trust not many will bring coins of such low denomination."

A look of bland innocence rested on Laura's face.

"Why, sir," she remarked, "you asked us, Friday, to bring pennies.

"Did I?" demanded the principal, a look of astonishment on his face.

"Why, yes, sir," Belle Meade rattled on. "Don't you remember? You laughed, Mr. Cantwell, and asked each one of us to bring fifteen pennies to-day."

"I had forgotten that, Miss Meade," returned the principal. Then, as the sophomore young ladies turned away, a look of suspicion began to settle on the principal's face. Nor did that look lessen any when the next six students to come in each carried pennies to the desk.

Twenty more brought pennies. By this time there was a stern look on the principal's white face.

During the next few minutes after that only two or three came in, for Dick had thought of a new aspect to the joke. He had sent messengers scurrying out through the street approaches with this message:

"We're not required to be in the assembly room until eight o'clock. Let's all wait until two minutes of eight—then go in a throng."

So the principal had a chance to catch up with his counting as the minutes passed. So busy was he, however, that it didn't quite occur to him to wonder why so few of the student body had as yet come in.

Then, at 7.58, a resounding tread was heard on the stairs leading up from the basement locker rooms. Some two hundred boys and girls were coming up in two separate throngs. They were still coming when the assembly bell rang. As fast as any entered they made their way, with solemn faces, to the desk on the platform.

As Mr. Cantwell had feared, the pennies still continued to pour in upon him. Suddenly the principal struck his desk sharply with a ruler, then leaped to his feet. His face was whiter than ever. It was plain that the man was struggling to control himself against an outburst of wrath. He even forced a smile to his face a sort of smile that had no mirth in it.

"Young ladies and young gentlemen," Mr. Cantwell rasped out, sharply, "some of you have seen fit to plan a joke against me, and to carry it out most audaciously. It's a good joke, and I admit that it's on me. But it has been carried far enough. If you please—no more pennies!"

"But pennies are all I happen to have, sir," protested Dave Darrin, stepping forward. "Don't you want me to pay you for the music, sir?"

"Oh, well," replied the principal, with a sigh, "I'll take 'em, then."

As Dick & Co. had disposed of every one of their little rolls of fifteen, few of the students were unprovided with pennies. So the copper stream continued to pour in. Mr. Cantwell could have called any or all of his submasters and teachers to his aid. He thought of it presently, as his fingers ached from handling all the pennies.

"Mr. Drake, will you come to the desk?" he called.

So Submaster Drake came to the platform, drawing a chair up beside the principal's. But Mr. Cantwell still felt obliged to do the counting, as he was responsible for the correctness of the sums. So all Mr. Drake could do was check off the names as the principal called them.

Faster and faster poured the copper stream now. Mr. Cantwell, the cords sticking out on his forehead, and a clammy dew bespangling his white face, counted on in consuming anger. Every now and then he turned to dump two or three handfuls of counted pennies into his open satchel.

Gathered all around the desk was a throng of students, waiting to pay. Beyond this throng, safely out of range of vision, other students gathered in groups and chuckled almost silently.

Clatter! By an unintentional move of one arm Mr. Cantwell swept fully a hundred pennies off on to the floor. He leaped up, flushed and angry.

"Will the young—gentlemen—aid me in recovering the coins that went on the floor?" he asked.

There was promptly a great scurrying and searching. The principal surely felt harassed that morning. It was ten minutes of nine when the last student had paid and had had his name checked off. Mr. Cantwell was at the boiling point of wrath.

Just as the principal was putting the last of the coins into his satchel Mr. Drake leaned over to whisper:

"May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"Certainly," replied the principal coldly. "Yet I trust, Mr. Drake, that it won't be a suggestion for an easy way of accumulating more pennies than I already have."

"I think, if I were you, sir, I should pay no heed to this joke——"

"Joke?" hissed the principal under his breath. "It's an outrage!"

"But intended only as a piece of pleasantry, sir. So I think it will pass off much better if you don't allow the students to see that they have annoyed you."

"Why? Do the students want to annoy me?" demanded Mr. Cantwell, in another angry undertone.

"I wouldn't say that," replied Mr. Drake. "But, if the young men discover that you are easily teased, they are sufficiently mischief-loving to try other jokes on you."

"Then a good friend of theirs would advise them not to do so," replied Mr. Cantwell, with a snap of his jaws.

That closed the matter for the time being. The first recitation period of the morning had been lost, but now the students, most of them finding difficulty in suppressing their chuckles, were sent to the various class rooms.

Before recess came, the principal having a period free from class work, silently escaped from the building, carrying the thirty-six hundred pennies to the bank. As that number of pennies weighs something more than twenty-three pounds, the load was not a light one.

"I have a big lot of pennies here that I want to deposit," he explained to the receiving teller.

"How many?" asked the teller.

"Thirty-six hundred," replied Mr. Cantwell.

"Are they counted and done up into rolls of fifty, with your name on each roll?" asked the teller.

"Why—er—no," stammered the principal. "They're just loose—in bulk, I mean."

"Then I'm very sorry, Mr. Cantwell, but we can't receive them in that shape, sir. They will have to be counted and wrapped, and your name written on each roll."

"Do you mean to say that I must take these pennies home, count them all—again!—and then wrap them and sign the wrappers."

"I'm sorry, but you, or some one will have to do it, Mr. Cantwell."

Then and there the principal exploded. One man there was in the bank at that moment who was obliged to turn his head away and stifle back the laughter. That man was Mr. Pollock, of "The Blade." Pollock knew now what Dick & Co. had wanted of such a cargo of pennies.

"I can't carry this infernal satchel back to school," groaned the principal, disgustedly. "Some of the boys, when they see me, will realize that the satchel is still loaded, and they'll know what has happened to me at the bank. It will make me look fearfully ridiculous to be caught in that fashion, with the joke against me a second time! And yet I have a class immediately after recess. What can I do?"

A moment later, however, he had solved the problem. There was a livery stable not far away, and he knew the proprietor. So to that stable Mr. Cantwell hurried, changing the satchel from one hand to the other whenever an arm ached too much.

"This satchel contains a lot of currency, Mr. Getchel," explained the poor principal. "I wish you could do me the favor of having a horse hitched up and take this to my wife. Will you do it?"

"Certainly," nodded the liveryman. "Just lock the satchel; that is all. I'll have the bag at your home within fifteen minutes."

So during the first period after recess Mrs. Cantwell was visited by Getchel, who handed her the satchel, merely remarking:

"Mr. Cantwell left this at my office, ma'am, and asked me to bring it down to you. It contains some money that your husband sent you."

Money? The good woman, who "loved" money too well to spend much of it, hefted the satchel. Gracious! There must be a big lot of the valuable stuff. But the satchel was locked. Mrs. Cantwell promptly hunted until she found another satchel key that fitted. Then she opened the bag, staring at the contents with big eyes.

"What on earth can my husband have been doing?" she wondered. "Surely he hasn't been robbing the Salvation Army Christmas boxes! And the idea of sending me money all in pennies!"

The more she thought about it the more indignant did Mrs. Cantwell become. Finally, a little after noon, Mrs. Cantwell decided to take the stuff to the bank, have it counted and turned over into greenbacks. So she trudged up to the bank with it. The journey was something more than a mile in length. Mrs. Cantwell arrived at the bank, only to make the same discovery that her husband had made about the need of counting and wrapping the money before it could be deposited or exchanged. It was close to one o'clock, and the High School not far away. So, full of ire, Mrs. Cantwell started down to her husband's place of employment.

Once school let out for the day, a quarter of a thousand members of the student body went off, full of glee, to spread the news of the joke. As they hurried along many of the students noticed that Mrs. Cantwell was standing not far from the gate and that, at her feet, lay her husband's black satchel. Several of the students were quick to wonder what this new phase of the matter meant.

After school was dismissed Fred Ripley remained behind, strapping several books together. Then, as he passed the principal's desk, he remarked:

"I suppose, Mr. Cantwell, that some of the students thought that a very funny trick that was played on you this morning. While I am speaking of it, I wish to assure you, sir, that I had no hand in the outrage."

"I am very glad to hear you say that, Mr. Ripley. Some day I hope I shall have a notion who did originate the practical joke."

"I don't believe you would have to guess very long, sir," Ripley hinted.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, sir, whenever anything of that sort is hatched up in this school, it's generally a pretty safe guess that Dick & Co. are at the bottom of it all."

"Dick & Co.?" repeated Mr. Cantwell.

"Dick Prescott and his chums, sir," replied Ripley, rapidly naming the five partners. Then, having accomplished what he wanted, Fred sauntered out.

"I'll look into this further," thought Mr. Cantwell, angrily. "If I can satisfy myself that Prescott was at the bottom of this wicked hoax then I—I may find it possible to make him want to cut his High School course short!"

Mrs. Cantwell was waiting at the gate.

"What on earth, Abner, did you mean by sending me this great cartload of pennies?" demanded the principal's spouse. "Here I've taken it up to the bank, and find they won't accept it—not in this form, anyway. Now, I've carried it this far, Abner, and you may carry it the rest of the way home."

"Why—er—er—" stammered the principal.

"Mr. Getchel brought the satchel to me, and told me it was money you had sent me. But I want to say, Abner, that of all the——"

At this moment the principal picked up the hateful satchel and the pair passed out of hearing of four young freshmen who had hidden near to learn what the mystery of the satchel meant. It was not long, either, before the further joke had become known to a great many of the students.

II. DICK TAKES UP HIS PEN

Dick had no sooner ventured out on the street after dinner than he encountered the news of Mrs. Cantwell's meeting with her husband.

But Dick did not linger long to discuss the matter. His pockets now contained, in place of pennies, a few banknotes and many dimes, pennies and nickels, amounting in all to thirty-six dollars. He was headed for "The Blade" office to settle with Mr. Pollock.

"I think I can tell you a little story now, that may be worth a paragraph or two," Dick announced after he had counted out the money and had turned it over to the editor.

"You played a little joke on your new and not wholly popular principal, didn't you?" Mr. Pollock asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes; has the thing reached you already?"

"I don't know the whole story of the joke," Mr. Pollock replied, "but perhaps I can tell you one side of it that you don't know."

Thereupon the editor described Mr. Cantwell's visit to the bank. "Now, I've got a still further side to the story," Dick continued, and repeated the story told by the freshmen of how Mrs. Cantwell also had carried the money to the bank, and then, still carrying it, had waited for her husband at the school gateway.

Editor Pollock leaned back, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry for the good lady's discomfiture," explained the editor, presently. "But the whole story is very, very funny."

"Now, I guess you know all the facts," finished Dick Prescott, rising.

"Yes, but I haven't a single reporter about." Then, after a pause, "See here, Prescott, why couldn't you write this up for me?"

"I?" repeated Dick, astonished. "I never wrote a line for publication in my life."

"Everyone who does, has to make a start some time," replied Mr. Pollock. "And I believe you could write it up all right, too. See here, Prescott, just go over to that desk. There's a stack of copy paper there. Write it briefly and crisply, and, for delicacy's sake, leave out all that relates to Mrs. Cantwell. No use in dragging a woman into a hazing scrape."

Dick went over to the desk, picking up a pen. For the fist three or four minutes he sat staring at the paper, the desk, the floor, the wall and the street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to him. Then, finally, Dick began to write. As he wrote a grin came to his face. That grin broadened as he wrote on. At last he took the pages over to Mr. Pollock.

"I don't suppose that's what you want," he said, his face very red, "but the main facts are all there."

Laying down his own pen Mr. Pollock read rapidly but thoughtfully. The editor began to laugh again. Then he laid down the last sheet.

"Prescott, that's well done. There's a good reporter lurking somewhere inside of you."

Thrusting one hand down into a pocket Mr. Pollock brought out a half-dollar, which he tendered to Dick.

"What am I to do with this?" asked the young sophomore.

"Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you."

"For me?" gasped Dick.

"Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course 'The Blade' is only a country daily, and our space rates are not high. But see here, Prescott, I'll pay you a dollar a column for anything you write for us that possesses local interest enough to warrant our printing it. Now, while going to the High School, why can't you turn reporter in your spare time, and earn a little pocket money?"

Again Dick gasped. He had never thought of himself as a budding young journalist. Yet, as Mr. Pollock inquired, "Why not?" Why not, indeed!

"Well, how do you think you'd like to work for us?" asked Mr. Pollock, after a pause. "Of course you would not leave the High School. You would not even neglect your studies in the least. But a young man who knows almost everybody in Gridley, and who goes about town as much as you do, ought to be able to pick up quite a lot of newsy stuff."

"I wonder if I could make a reporter out of myself," Dick pondered.

"The way to answer that question is to try," replied Mr. Pollock. "For myself, I think that, with some training, you'd make a good reporter. By the way, Prescott, have you planned on what you mean to be when you're through school?"

"Why, it isn't settled yet," Dick replied slowly. "Father and mother hope to be able to send me further than the High School, and so they've suggested that I wait until I'm fairly well through before I decide on what I want to be. Then, if it's anything that a college course would help me to, they'll try to provide it."

"What would you like most of all in the world to be?" inquired the editor of "The Blade."

"A soldier!" replied young Prescott, with great promptness and emphasis.

"Hm! The soldier's trade is rather dull these days," replied the editor. "We're becoming a peaceful people, and the arbitrator's word does the work that the sword used to do."

"This country has been in several wars," argued Dick, "and will be in others yet to come. In times of peace a soldier's duty is to fit himself for the war time that is to come. Oh, I believe there's plenty, always, that an American soldier ought to be doing."

"Perhaps. But newspaper work is the next best thing to soldiering, anyway. Prescott, my boy, the reporter of to-day is the descendant of the old free-lance soldier of fortune. It takes a lot of nerve to be a reporter, sometimes, and to do one's work just as it should be done. The reporter's life is almost as full of adventure as the soldier's. And there are no 'peace times' for the reporter. He never knows when his style of 'war' will break out. But I must get back to my work. Are you going to try to bring us in good matter at a dollar a column?"

"Yes, I am, thank you," Dick replied, unhesitatingly, now.

"Good," nodded Mr. Pollock, opening one of the smaller drawers over his desk. "Here's something you can put on and wear."

He held out to the boy an oblong little piece of metal, gold plated.

"It's a badge such as 'The Blade' reporters wear, and has the paper's name on it," continued the editor. "You can pin it on your vest."

"I guess I'd better leave that part out for a while," laughed Dick, drawing back. "The fellows at school wouldn't do a thing to me if they caught me wearing a reporter's badge."

"Oh, just as you please about that," nodded Mr. Pollock, tossing the badge back into the drawer. "But don't forget to bring us in something good, Prescott."

"I won't forget, Mr. Pollock."

As Dick went down the street, whistling blithely, he kept his hand in his pocket on the half-dollar. He had had much more money with him a little while before, but that was to pay to some one else. This half-dollar was wholly his own money, and, with the prospect it carried of earning more, the High School boy was delighted. Pocket money had never been plentiful with young Prescott. The new opportunity filled him with jubilation.

It was not long, however, before a new thought struck him. He went straight to his parents' bookstore, where he found his mother alone, Mr. Prescott being out on business.

To his mother Dick quickly related his new good fortune. Mrs. Prescott's face and words both expressed her pleasure.

"At first, mother, I didn't think of anything but pocket money," Dick admitted. "Then my head got to work a bit. It has struck me that if I can make a little money each week by writing for 'The Blade,' I can pay you at least a bit of the money that you and Dad have to spend to keep me going."

"I am glad you thought of that," replied Mrs. Prescott, patting her boy's hand. "But we shan't look to you to do anything of the sort. Your father and I are not rich, but we have managed all along to keep you going, and I think we can do it for a while longer. Whatever money you can earn, Richard, must be your own. We shall take none of it. But I trust you will learn how to handle your own money wisely. That is one of the most valuable lessons to be learned in life."

To his chums, when he saw them later in the afternoon, Dick said nothing of Mr. Pollock's request. The young soph thought it better to wait a while, and see how he got along at amateur reporting before he let anyone else into the secret.

But late that afternoon Dick ran into a matter of interest and took it to "The Blade" office.

"That's all right," nodded Mr. Pollock, after looking over Dick's "copy." "Glad to see you have started in, my boy. Now, I won't pay you for this on the nail. Wait until Saturday morning, cutting all that you have printed out of the 'The Blade.' Paste all the items together, end on end, and bring them to me. That is what reporters call a 'space string.' Bring your 'string' to me every Saturday afternoon. We'll measure it up with you and settle."

Dick hurried away, content. He even found that evening that he could study with more interest, now that he found he had a financial place in life.

In the morning Gridley read and laughed over Dick's item about the High School hoax. But there was one man who saw it at his breakfast table, and who went into a white heat of rage at once. That man was Abner Cantwell, the principal.

He was still at white heat when he started for the High School; though, warned by prudence, he tried to keep his temper down. Nevertheless, there was fire in Mr. Cantwell's eyes when he rang the bell to bring the student body to attention to begin the morning's work.

III. MR. CANTWELL THINKS TWICE—OR OFTENER

"Young ladies and young gentlemen," began the principal, "a very silly hoax was perpetrated on me yesterday. I do not believe you will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. But the matter went beyond this school room. An account of the hoax was published in the morning paper, and that holds me up to severe ridicule. I trust that we shall not have any repetition of such childish, so-called jokes. I do not know yet what action I may or may not take in this matter, and can promise nothing. I can and do promise, however, that if any more such hoaxes are attempted I shall do all in my power to ferret out and summarily punish the offenders!——"

Here the principal's own sense of prudence warned him that he had gone quite as far as was necessary or prudent. So he choked down his rising words and called for the morning singing. Yet, as Mr. Cantwell uttered his last words his glance fell very sternly on one particular young member of the sophomore class. Dick Prescott.

"Prin. has it in for you, old fellow!" whispered Dave Darrin, as he and Dick jostled on the way to a recitation. "But if he has—humph—it won't be long before he finds out that you had some help. You shan't be the scapegoat for all of Dick & Co."

"Don't say anything," Dick whispered back. "I'll find a way to take care of myself. If any trouble is to come, I think I can take care of it. Anyway, I won't have anyone else dragged into it."

But the principal said nothing more during that school session. In the afternoon, however, when Mr. Cantwell took his accustomed walk after dinner, he met several acquaintances who made laughing or casual references to the yarn in the morning's "Blade."

"I've got to stamp this spirit out in the school," decided the principal, again at a white heat. "If I don't I'll soon have some real trouble on hand with these young jackanapes! The idea of their making me—the principal—ridiculous in the town! No school principal can submit to hoaxes like that one without suffering in public esteem. I'll sift this matter down and nip the whole spirit in the bud."

In this Mr. Cantwell was quite possibly at error in judgment. Probably the High School boys wouldn't have played such a prank on good old Dr. Thornton, had he still been their school chief. But, if they had, Dr. Thornton would have admitted the joke good-humoredly and would have taken outside chaffing with a good nature that would have disarmed all wit aimed at him. Mr. Cantwell, as will be seen, lacked the saving grace of a sense of humor. He also lacked ability in handling full-blooded, fun-loving boys.

Wednesday, just before one o'clock, the principal electrified the assembled students by saying, in a voice that was ominously quiet and cool:

"When school is dismissed I shall be glad to have Mr. Prescott remain for a few words with me."

"Now it's coming," thought Dick, though without any particular thrill of dismay.

He waited while the others filed out. Somehow the big building didn't empty as fast as usual. Had Mr. Cantwell known more about boy nature he would have suspected that several of Dick's friends had remained behind in hiding places of their own choosing.

Dick remained in his seat, coolly turning the pages of his text-book on ancient history.

"Mr. Prescott," called the principal sharply.

"Yes, sir," responded Dick, closing the book, slipping it into his desk, and rising as though to go forward.

"No, no; keep your seat until I am ready to speak with you, Mr. Prescott. But it isn't necessary to read, is it?"

"I was looking through to-morrow's history lesson, sir," Dick replied, looking extremely innocent. "But, of course, I won't if you disapprove."

"Wait until I come back," rapped out the principal, leaving the room. He went out to see that the building was being emptied of students, but of course he failed to discover that a few were hiding as nearly within earshot as they could get.

Two or three of the teachers who had remained behind now left the room. The last to go was Mr. Drake, the submaster. As he went he cast a look at Dick that was full of sympathy, though the submaster, who was a very decent man and teacher, did not by any means intend to foster mutiny in the heart of a High School boy. But Mr. Drake knew that Mr. Cantwell was not fitted either to command respect or to enforce discipline in the High School.

When Mr. Cantwell came back he and the young soph had the great room to themselves.

"Now you may come forward, Mr. Prescott," announced the principal, "and stand in front of the platform."

As Dick went forward there was nothing of undue confidence or any notion of bravado in his bearing. He was not one of those schoolboys who, when brought to task by authority, try to put on a don't-care look. Dick's glance, as he halted before the platform and turned to look at Mr. Cantwell, was one of simple inquiry.

"Mr. Prescott, you are fully informed as to the hoax that was perpetrated on me yesterday morning?"

"You mean the incident of the pennies, I think, sir?" returned the boy, inquiringly.

"You know very well that I do, young man," retorted Mr. Cantwell, rapping his desk with one hand.

"Yes, sir; I am fully informed about it."

"And you know who was at the bottom of it, too, Mr. Prescott?"

The principal bent upon the boy a look that was meant to make him quail, but Dick didn't quail.

"Yes, sir," he admitted, promptly. "I know at least several that had a hand in the affair."

"And you were one of them?"

"Yes, sir," admitted the young soph, frankly. "I think I had as much to do with what you term the hoax, sir, as anyone else had."

"Who were the others?" fired the principal, quickly and sharply.

"I—I beg your pardon, sir. I cannot answer that."

"You can't? Why not, Mr. Prescott?" demanded the principal.

Again the principal launched his most compelling look.

"Because, sir," answered Dick, quietly, and in a tone in which no sign of disrespect could be detected, "it would strike me as being dishonorable to drag others into this affair."

"You would consider it dishonorable?" cried Mr. Cantwell, his face again turning deathly white with inward rage. "You, who admit having had a big hand in what was really an outrage?"

But Dick met and returned the other's gaze composedly.

"The Board of Education, Mr. Cantwell, has several times decided that one pupil in the public schools cannot be compelled by a teacher to bear tales that implicate another student. I have admitted my own share in the joke that has so much displeased you, but I cannot name any others."

"You must!" insisted the principal, rising swiftly from his chair.

"I regret to have to say, sir," responded Prescott, quietly, "that I shall not do it. If you make it necessary, I shall have to take refuge behind the rulings of the Board of Education on that point."

Mr. Cantwell glared at Dick, but the latter still met the gaze unflinchingly.

Then the principal began to feel his wrath rising to such a point that he found himself threatened with an angry outburst. As his temper had often betrayed him before in life, Mr. Cantwell, pointing angrily to Dick's place, said:

"Back to your seat, Mr. Prescott, until I have given this matter a little more thought!"

Immediately afterward the principal quitted the room. Dick, after sitting in silence for a few moments, drew his history again from his desk, turned over the pages, found the place he wanted and began to read.

It was ten minutes later when the principal returned to the room. He had been to one of the class rooms, where he had paced up and down until he felt that he could control himself enough to utter a few words. Now, he came back.

"Prescott, I shall have to think over your admission before I come to any decision in the matter. I may not be able to announce my decision for a while. I shall give it most careful thought. In the meantime, I trust, very sincerely, that you will not be caught in any more mischief—least of all, anything as serious, as revolutionary, as yesterday's outrageous impudence. You may go, now—for to-day!"

"Very good, sir," replied Dick Prescott, who had risen at his desk as soon as Mr. Cantwell began to talk to him. As young Prescott passed from the room he favored the principal with a decorous little bow.

Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, Greg Holmes, Harper and another member of the freshman class, came out of various places of hiding. As he went down the stairs Dick was obliged to tread heavily enough to drown out their more stealthy footfalls.

Once in the open, Harper and the other freshman scurried away, their curiosity satisfied. But, a moment later, when Mr. Cantwell looked out of the window, he was much surprised to see four members of Dick & Co. walking together, and almost out through the gate.

"Have they been within earshot—listening?" wondered the principal to himself, and jotted down the names of Darrin, Reade and Holmes. The two freshmen, by their prompt departure had saved themselves from suspicion.

On Thursday nothing was said or done about Dick's case. When Friday's session drew toward its close young Prescott fully expected to have sentence pronounced, or at least to be directed to remain after school. But nothing of the sort happened. Dick filed out at the week's end with the rest.

"What do you imagine Prin. can be up to?" Dave Darrin asked, as Dick & Co. marched homeward that early Friday afternoon.

"I don't know," Dick confessed. "It may be that Mr. Cantwell is just trying to keep me guessing."

"If that's his plan," inquired Reade, "what are you going to do, old fellow?"

"Perhaps—just possibly—I shall fight back with the same weapon," smiled Dick.

Mr. Cantwell had, in truth, formed his plan, or as much of it as he could form until he had found just how the land lay, and what would be safe. His present berth, as principal of Gridley H.S., was a much better one than he had ever occupied before. Mr. Cantwell cherished a hope of being able to keep the position for a good many years to come. Yet this would depend on the attitude of the Board of Education. In order not to take any step that would bring censure from the Board, Mr. Cantwell had decided to attend the Board's next meeting on the following Monday evening, and lay the matter before the members confidentially. If the Board so advised, Mr. Cantwell was personally quite satisfied with the idea of disciplining Dick by dropping him from the High School rolls.

"I'll protect my dignity, at any cost," Mr. Cantwell, murmured, eagerly to himself. "After all, what is a High School principal, without dignity?"

Monday afternoon Dick Prescott stepped in at "The Blade" office.

"Got something for us again?" asked Mr. Pollock, looking around.

"Not quite yet," Dick replied. "I've come to make a suggestion."

"Prescott, suggestions are the food of a newspaper editor. Go ahead."

"You don't send a reporter to report the Board of Education meetings, do you?"

"No; those meetings are rarely newsy enough to be worth while. I can't afford to take up the evening of a salaried reporter in that way. But Spencer generally drops around, at the time the Board is expected to adjourn, or else he telephones the clerk, from this office, and learns what has been done. It's mostly nothing, you know."

"Spencer wouldn't care if he didn't have to report the Board meetings at all?"

"Of course not. Len would be delighted at not having anything more to do."

"Then let me go and report the meetings for you, on space."

"My boy, a reporter would starve on that kind of space work. Why, after you put in the whole evening there, you might come to the office only to learn that we didn't consider any of the Board's doings worth space to tell about them."

"Will you let me attend a few of the meetings, and take my chances on the amount of space I can get out of it?"

"Go ahead, Prescott, if you can afford to waste your time in that fashion," replied Mr. Pollock, almost pityingly.

"Thank you. That's what I wanted," acknowledged Dick, and went out very well contented.

When it lacked a few minutes of eight, that evening, all the members of the Board of Education had arrived. It was the same Board as in the year before. All the members had been re-elected at the last city election, though some of them by small majorities. Mr. Gadsby, one of the members who had won by only a slight margin over his opponent, stood with his back to a radiator, warming himself, when he saw the door open.

Mr. Gadsby nodded most genially to Mr. Cantwell, who entered. The principal came straight over to this member, and they shook hands cordially. Mr. Gadsby had been one of the members of the Board who had been most anxious about having Cantwell appointed principal; Cantwell was, in fact, a family connection of Mrs. Gadsby's.

"Coming to make some report, or some suggestion, I take it, eh, Cantwell?" murmured Mr. Gadsby in a low voice. "Most excellent idea, my dear fellow. Keeps you in notice and shows that your heart is in the work. Most excellent idea, really."

"I have a report to make," admitted Mr. Cantwell, in an equally low voice. "I—I find it necessary to make a statement about the doings of a rather troublesome element in the school. Suspension or expulsion may be necessary in order to give the best ideas of good discipline to many of the other students. But I shall state the facts, and ask the Board to advise me as to just what I ought to do in the premises."

"Ask the Board's advice? Most excellent idea, really," murmured Mr. Gadsby. "You can't go wrong then. But—er—what's the nature of the trouble? Who is the offen——"

Mr. Gadsby was rubbing his hands, under his coat tails, as he felt the warmth from the steam radiator reach them.

"Why, the principal offender is named——"

Here Mr. Cantwell paused, and looked rather astonished.

"Tell me, Mr. Gadsby, what is Prescott, of the sophomore class, doing here?"

The principal's glance had just rested on Dick, who sat at a small side table, a little pile of copy paper on the table, a pencil in his hand.

"Oh—ah—Prescott, Richard Prescott?" inquired Mr. Gadsby. "Some of us were a bit surprised this evening to learn that Prescott, though he will continue to attend High School, has also taken a position with 'The Morning Blade.' Among other things to which he will attend, after this, Cantwell, is the matter of school doings in this city. He is to be the regular reporter of School Board meetings. Rather a young man to wield the power of the press isn't he?" Mr. Gladsby chuckled at his own joke.

"'Power of the press'?" murmured Mr. Cantwell, uncomfortably. "Surely you don't mean, Gadsby, that this mere boy, this High School student, is going to be taken here seriously as representing the undoubtedly great power of the press?"

"To some extent, yes," admitted Mr. Gadsby. "'The Blade,' as you may know, is a good deal of a power in local politics. Now, some of us—er—did not win our re-elections by any too large margins. A little dangerous opposition to—er—some of us—would mean a few new faces around the table at Board meetings. Mr. Pollock is—er—a most estimable citizen, and a useful man in the community. Yet Mr. Pollock is—er—Cantwell—er—that is, a bit 'touchy.' No matter if Pollock's reporter is a schoolboy, if we treated the boy with any lack of consideration, then Pollock would most certainly take umbrage at what he would choose to consider a slight upon himself, received through his representative. So at these Board meetings, young Prescott will have to be treated with as much courtesy as though he were really a man, for Pollock's hostility would be most disastrous to us—er—to some of us, possibly, I mean. But, really, young Prescott is a most bright and enterprising young fellow, anyway—a very likable boy. You like him, don't you, Cantwell?"

"Ye-e-es," admitted the principal, though he added grimly under his breath:

"I like him so well that I could eat him, right now, if I had a little Worcestershire sauce to make him more palatable."

"The Board will please come to order," summoned Chairman Stone, rapping the table with his gavel. "Mr. Reporter, have you good light over at your table."

"Excellent, thank you, Mr. Chairman," Dick replied.

"Er—aren't you going to stay, Cantwell?" demanded Gadsby, as the principal turned to leave the room.

"No; the fact is—I—well, I want to consider my statement a little more before I offer it to the Board. Good evening!"

Mr. Cantwell got out of the room while some of the members were still scraping their chairs into place.

Dick Prescott had not openly looked in the principal's direction. Yet the amateur reporter had taken it all in. He was grinning inside now. He had taken upon himself the work of reporting these meetings that he might be in a position to block any unfair move on the part of the principal.

"I wonder what Mr. Cantwell is thinking about, now?" Dick asked himself, with an inward grin as he picked up his pencil.

That Board meeting was about as dull and uneventful as the average. Yet Dick managed to make a few live paragraphs out of it that Guilford, "The Blade's" news editor, accepted.

It still lacked some minutes of ten o'clock when young Prescott left the morning newspaper office and started briskly homeward.

"I didn't catch that Board-reporting idea a day too soon," the boy told himself, laughing. "Mr. Cantwell was certainly on hand for mischief to-night. But how quickly he made his get-away when he discovered that his culprit was present as a member of the press! I guess Mr. Gadsby must have passed him a strong hint. But I must be careful not to have any malice in the matter. Some evening when Mr. Cantwell does come before the Board with some report I must take pains to give him and his report a nice little notice and ask 'The Blade' folks to be sure to print it. Then—gracious!"

Utterly startled, Dick heard and saw an ugly brickbat whizz by his head. It came out of the dark alley that the sophomore was passing at that moment. And now came another, aimed straight for his head!

IV. DAVE WARNS TIP SCAMMON

There wasn't time to jump out of the way of that second flying missile.

By an instinct of self-preservation young Prescott, instead of trying to leap out of the way, just collapsed, going down to his knees.

As he sank the missile struck the top of his cap, carrying it from his head.

"Hi! Stop that, you blamed rascal!"

It was Dave Darrin's voice that rang out, as that young man came rushing down the street behind Prescott.

Dick in another second was on his feet, crouching low, and running full tilt into the alleyway.

It was Dick's way—to run at danger, instead of away from it.

At his first bound into the alley, Prescott dimly made out some fellow running at the further end.

There was an outlet of escape down there—two of them, in fact, as the indignant pursuer knew. So he put on speed, but soon was obliged to halt, finding that his unknown enemy had gotten away. Here Dick was joined by breathless Dave Darrin, who had followed swiftly.

"You go through there, Dave; I'll take the other way," urged Dick, again starting in pursuit.

The unknown one, however, had taken advantage of those few seconds of delay to get safely beyond chase. So the chums met, soon, in a side street.

"His line of retreat was good," muttered Dick, rather disgustedly.

"Who was it, anyway?" Dave indignantly inquired.

"I don't know. I didn't see."

"Do you suppose it could have been Tip Scammon?" asked Dave, shrewdly.

"Is Tip Scammon back from the penitentiary?"

"Got back this afternoon, and has been showing himself around town this evening," nodded Dave. "Say, I wonder if he could have been the one who ambushed you?"

"I don't like to throw suspicion on anyone," Dick replied. "Still, I can't imagine anyone else who would have as much temptation to try to lay me up. Tip Scammon acted as Fred Ripley's tool, last year, in trying to make me out a High School thief. Tip was sent away, and Fred didn't have to suffer at all, because Tip wouldn't betray his employer. But Tip must have felt sore at me many a time when he was breaking rock at the penitentiary."

The two chums walked slowly back to Main Street, still talking.

"I saw you ahead of me, on the street," Dave rattled on. "I was trying to overtake you, without calling, when that thing came whizzing by your head. Say, Dick, I wonder—"

"What?" demanded Prescott.

"Oh, of course, it's a crazy notion. But I was wondering if Mr. Cantwell could have it in for you so hard that he'd put anyone up to lying in ambush for you."

Dick started, then thought a few moments. "No," he decided. "Cantwell may be erratic, and he certainly has a treacherous temper, and some mean ways. But this was hardly the sort of trick he'd go in for."

"Then it was Tip Scammon, all by himself," declared Darrin, with great conviction.

"But to go back to Mr. Cantwell," Dick resumed, with a grin, "I must tell you something really funny. Prin. went to School Board tonight with a long, bright knife sharpened for me. But he didn't do a thing."

Then Prescott confessed to being a "Blade" representative, and told of the principal's visit to the Board, and of his hurried departure.

Dave laughed heartily, though what seemed to amaze him most of all was that Dick had found a chance to write for pay.

"Of course you can do it, Dick," continued his loyal friend, "but I never thought that anyone as young as you ever got the chance."

"It came my way," Dick went on, "and I'm mighty glad it did. So——"

"Wow!" muttered Dave, suddenly, then started off at a sprint, as he muttered:

"Here's Tip Scammon now!"

Both boys moved along on a hot run. Tip was walking slowly along Main Street, giving a very good imitation of one unconcerned.

He turned when he heard the running feet behind him, however. His first impulse seemed to be to take to his heels. But the young jailbird quickly changed his mind, and turned to face them, an inquisitive look on his hard cunning face.

"Good evenin', fellers. Where's the fire?" he hailed.

"In my eyes! See it?" demanded Dave Darrin. His dark eyes certainly were flashing as he reached out and seized Tip by one shoulder.

"Now don't ye git festive with me!" warned Tip.

"Oh, we don't feel ready for anything more festive than a lynching party," muttered Dave, hotly. "See here, you——"

"I s'pose ye think ye can do all ye wanter to me, jest because I've been doin' my stretch?" demanded Tip, aggressively. "But don't be too sure. Take yer hand offen my shoulder!"

Dave didn't show any sign of immediate intention of complying.

"Take it off!" insisted Tip.

But Dave met the fellow's baleful gaze with a cool, steady look. Tip, muttering something, edged away from under Dave's extended hand.

"Now, ye wanter understand," continued young Scammon, "that I can't be played with, jest because some folks think I'm down. If you come fooling around me you'll have to explain or apologize."

"Tip," questioned Dave Darrin, sharply, "why did you just throw two brickbats at Dick Prescott's head?"

"I didn't," retorted Tip, stolidly.

"You did."

"I didn't."

"Tip," declared Dave, solemnly, "I won't call you a liar. I'll just remark that you and truth are strangers."

"I ain't interested in what you fellers got to say," flared Tip, sullenly. "And I don't like your company, neither. So jest skate along."

"We're not going to linger with you, Tip, any longer than seems absolutely necessary," promised Dave, coolly. "But what I want to say is this: If you make any more attempts to do Dick Prescott any harm our crowd will get you, no matter how far we have to go to find you. Is that clear?"

"I s'pose it is, if you say so," sneered young Scammon.

"We'll get you," pursued Dave, "and we'll turn you over to the authorities. One citizen like Dick Prescott is worth more than a million of your stamp. If we find you up to any more tricks against Dick Prescott, or against any of us, for that matter, we'll soon have you doing your second 'stretch,' as you have learned to call a term at the penitentiary. Tip, your best card will be to turn over a very new leaf, and find an honest job. Just because you've been in jail once don't go along with the notion that it's the only place where you can find your kind of company. But whatever you do, steer clear of Dick Prescott and his chums. I think you understand that. Now, go!"

Tip tried to brazen it out, but there was a compelling quality in the clear, steady gaze of Dave Darrin's dark eyes. After a moment Tip Scammon let his own gaze drop. He turned and shuffled away.

"Poor fellow!" muttered Dick.

"Yes, with all my heart," agreed Dave. "But the fellow doesn't want to get any notion that he can go about terrorizing folks in Gridley!"

V. RIPLEY LEARNS THAT THE PIPER MUST BE PAID

Scammon, however, knew one person in Gridley whom he thought he could terrorize. He started in promptly to do it.

At three the next afternoon young Scammon loitered under a big, bare oak on one of the winding, little-traveled streets that led from Gridley out into the open country beyond.

In summer it was a favorite thoroughfare, especially for young engaged couples who wanted to loiter along the road, chatting and picking wild flowers.

In winter, however, the place was usually deserted, being more than a mile out of the city.

As Tip lingered he caught sight of haughty Fred Ripley coming down the road at a fast walk. Fred looked both angry and worried. Tip, as soon as he caught sight of the young fellow who imagined himself an "aristocrat," began to grin in his evil way.

A dull, sullen, red fired Fred's cheeks when he caught sight of the one who was waiting for him.

"Ye're most nearly on time," Tip informed the other.

"See here, Scammon, what in blazes did you mean by sending me a note like the one I got from you" demanded Fred?

Tip only grinned.

"What did you mean, fellow?" Ripley insisted angrily.

"I meant to get ye here, to let ye know what I had to say to ye," Scammon retorted.

"Why, confound you, fellow—" Fred began, stuttering a bit, but the other cut in on him in short fashion.

"None o' that to me, now, Fred Ripley. D'ye hear? Me an' you used to be pretty good pals, once on a time."

At this charge, Fred winced very plainly.

"And maybe we'll be pals, now, too," Tip pursued, with the air of one who believed himself to be able to dictate terms. "That is, for your sake, I hope we are, Ripley."

"What are you talking about? What do you want to see me about? Come to the point in mighty few words," Ripley commanded, impatiently.

"Well, now, first-off, last year, before I went away for my health—" Tip grinned in ghastly fashion 'ye hired me to do a certain job for ye. Right, so far, ain't I?"

"Possibly," assented Fred, coldly.

"Ye hired me to get hold of keys that could be used on one o' the High School locker rooms," Tip went on, cunningly. "Ye hired me to steal some stuff from the coats o' the young gents that study there. Then ye hired me to break inter Dick Prescott's room and get the loot inter his trunk. Right, ain't I?"

Tip spoke assertively, making no effort to keep his voice low.

"For goodness' sake don't shout it all over four counties," protested Fred Ripley, glancing apprehensively about him. His face was paler, now, from uneasiness.

"Oh, I ain't afraid about anyone hearing me," Tip went on, unconcernedly. "D'ye know why, Fred, my boy? Because I done my stretch for the trick, and there ain't nuthin' more comin' to me on that score. If you're 'fraid, jest go an' do yer stretch, like I did, an' then ye won't care who hears or knows!"

Tip laughed cunningly. Fred's face darkened. He squirmed, yet found himself afraid to show anger.

"So I dropped ye that note, tellin' ye to come here at three this aft'noon," Scammon continued. "I told ye I hoped ye'd find it convenient to come, an' hinted that if ye didn't, ye might wish later, that ye had."

"I'm here," retorted the Ripley heir. "Now, what do you want to say to me?"

"I'm broke," Tip informed Ripley, plaintively. "Stony! Understand? I hain't got no money."

"You don't expect me to furnish you with any?" demanded Fred, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "I paid you, in full, last year."

"Ye didn't pay me fer the stretch I done, did ye?" demanded Tip, insolently. "How much did ye pay me for keeping my mouth closed, so you wouldn't have to do your stretch?"

Fred winced painfully under that steady, half-ugly glance of the other.

"And now," continued Scammon, in a half-hurt way, "ye think it's hard if I tell ye that I want a few dollars to keep food in my insides."

"You've got your father," hinted Fred.

"Sure, I have," Tip assented.

"But it's mighty little he'll do for me until I get a job and settle down to it."

"Well, why don't you?" asked Fred Ripley. "That's the surest way to get straight with the world."

"When I want advice," sneered Scammon, "I won't tramp all the way out here, an' ask you for it. Nope. I don't want advice. What I want is money."

"Oh, well, Tip, I'm sorry for you and your troubles. Here's a dollar for you. I wish I could make it more."

Fred Ripley drew out the greenback, passing it over. Tip took the money, studying it curiously.

"Ye're sorry just a dollar's worth—is that it? Well, old pal, ye'll have to be more sorry'n that. I'll let ye off fer ten dollars, but hand it over quick!"

Fred's first impulse was to get angry, but it didn't take him more than an instant to realize that it would be better to keep this fellow quiet.

"I haven't ten dollars, Tip—on my honor," he protested, hesitatingly.

"On yer—what?" questioned Scammon, with utter scorn.

"I haven't ten dollars."

"How much have ye?"

There was something in Tip's ugly eyes that scared the boy. Fred went quickly through his pockets, producing, finally, six dollars and a half.

"I'll give you six of this, Tip," proposed Fred, rather miserably.

"Ye'll give me all of it, ye mean," responded Scammon. "And ye'll meet me to-morrow aft'noon with five more—something for interest, ye know."

"But I won't have five dollars again, as soon as that," argued Fred, weakly.

"Yes, you will," leered Tip. "You'll have to!"

"What do you mean?" demanded Fred, trying to bluster, but making a failure of the attempt.

"It'll take five more to give me lock-jaw," declared Scammon. "I'm jest out of prison, and I mean to enjoy myself restin' a few days before I settle down to a job again. So, to-morrow, turn up with the five!"

"I don't know where to get the money."

"Find out, then," sneered the other. "I don't care where you get it, but you've got to get it and hand it over to me to-morrow, or it'll be too late, an' Gridley'll be too hot a place for 'ye!"

"I'll try," agreed Ripley, weakly.

"Ye'll do more'n try, 'cause if ye fail me ye'll have no further show," declared Tip, with emphasis.

"See, here, Scammon, if I can find another five—somehow—that'll be the last of this business? You won't expect to get any more money out of me?"

"The five that you're goin' to bring me tomorrow will be in full payment."

"Of all possible claims to date?" Fred insisted.

"Yes, in full—to date," agreed Scammon, grinning as though he were enjoying himself.

"And there'll never be any further demands?" questioned Fred.

"Never again!" Scammon asserted, with emphasis.

"You promise that, solemnly?"

"On my honor," promised the jailbird, sardonically.

"I'll try to get you the money, Tip. But see here, I'll be in front of the drug store next to the post office, at just three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You stop and look in the same window, but don't speak to me. If I can get the five I'll slip it into your hand. Then I'll move away. You stand looking in the window a minute or so after I leave you, will you?"

"Sure," agreed Scammon, cheerfully.

"And don't do anything so plainly that any passerby can detect the fact that you and I are meeting there. Don't let anyone see what I slip into your hand."

"That'll be all right," declared Tip Scammon, readily enough.

"And mind you, that's the last money you're ever to ask me for."

"That'll be all right, too," came readily enough from the jailbird.

"Then good-bye until to-morrow. Don't follow me too closely."

"Sure not," promised Tip. "Ye don't want anyone to know that I'm your friend, and I'm good at keepin' secrets."

For two or three minutes young Scammon remained standing under the bare tree. But his gaze followed the vanishing figure of Fred Ripley, and a cunning look gleamed in Tip's eyes.

Fred Ripley, when he had heard of Tip going to prison without saying a word, had been foolish enough to suppose that that incident in his own life was closed. Fred had yet to learn that evil remains a long time alive, and that its consequences hit the evil doer harder than the victim.

VI. THE CALL TO THE DIAMOND—FRED SCHEMES

Recess! As the long lines filed rhythmically down from the second floor, thence to the basement, the leaders of the files quickly discovered something new posted on the bulletin board near the boys' locker rooms.

As quickly as the files broke, there was such a rush to see the new bulletin that those who got the best places had to read aloud to others. This was what the bulletin proclaimed:

Notice.

The gymnasium will be open at 2.30 this afternoon for the gathering of all male students, except freshmen, who may be interested in trying to make either the school or second baseball teams for the coming season. Gridley will have some notable rivals in the field this next year. Information comes that several of school baseball teams will have better material and longer training for next season. It is earnestly desired that all members of the three upper classes who consider themselves capable of making either of the Gridley High School baseball teams be on hand this afternoon, when as full plans as possible will be made.

By order of the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association.

(signed) Edward Luce, B.B. Coach.

A shout of approval went up from half of those present as Purcell, of the junior class, finished reading.

Many of those who had no thought of making the school or second teams were filled with delight at thought of the training season being so soon to open.

One of the boys who was pleased was Fred Ripley. He had handed that five-dollar bill to Tip Scammon the afternoon before, and now felt rather certain that he had closed the door on the whole Scammon episode.

Like many another haughty, disagreeable person, Ripley had, in spite of his treatment of others, a keen desire to be well thought of. The year before, in the sophomore class, Fred had played as one of the pitchers in the second team, and had done fairly well on the few occasions when he had been given a chance.

"There's no good reason why I can't make the post of pitcher on the school team this year," thought young Ripley, with a thrill of hope and expectant delight.

"Going to show up this afternoon?" asked Dave of Prescott.

"Of course I am, Darrin," answered Prescott, as Dick & Co. met out on the sidewalk.

"Going to try to make the regular team?"

"Of course I am," declared Dick, smiling. "And so, I hope, are every one of you fellows."

"I'd like to," agreed Tom Reade.

"Then don't say you'd like to; say you're going to," admonished Dick. "The fellow who doesn't quite know never gets much of any place. Just say to yourself that you're going to be one of the stars on the school team. If you have to fall into the second team—don't be cast down over it—but make every possible effort toward getting on the top team. That's the spirit that wins in athletics," finished Dick, sagely.

"I'm going to make the school team," announced Dave Darrin. "Not only that, but I'll proclaim it to anyone who'll be kind enough to listen. The school nine, or 'bust,' for me."

"Good enough!" cheered Dick. "Now, then, fellows, we'll all be on hand this afternoon, won't we, and on every other afternoon that we're needed?"

Dick & Co. carried that proposition by a unanimous vote.

"But see here, fellows," urged Dick Prescott, "just try to keep one idea in mind, please. There's a good deal of objection, every year, that athletics are allowed to interfere with studies. Now, as soon as the end of recess is called to-day, let's every one of us go back with our minds closed to baseball. Let us all keep our minds right on our studies. Why can't we six help to prove that interest in athletics puts the scholarship mark up, not down?"

"We can," nodded Dave Darrin. "Good! I like that idea. We'll simply go ahead and put our scholarship away up over where it is at present."

To this the other chums agreed heartily.

Luce, the coach for baseball, was one of the under submasters. He had made a record at college, for both baseball and scholarship. He was a complete enthusiast on the game of the diamond. The year before he had trained the school nine to a record that beat anything in the High School line in the whole state. His bulletin announced that he intended to try to make the coming nine the best yet. It didn't say that, in so many words, but the bulletin implied it.

Fred Ripley did not hit upon the idea of improved scholarship. Instead, that young man went into two classes, after recess, and reported "not prepared." Then he settled back into a brown study of his chances in baseball.

"I don't suppose Dick & Co. will have the nerve to try for anything better than the second nine," muttered Fred to himself. "Still, one can never tell what that crowd will have the nerve to do!"

School out, Fred hurried home faster than was his wont. He caught his father just as the latter was leaving the lunch table.

"Dad, can I have a few minutes' talk with you about one of my ambitions?" pleaded Fred.

"Certainly, my boy," replied the wealthy, retired lawyer. "I'm glad, indeed, to hear that you have any ambitions. Come into the library, if you can let your luncheon go that long."

"If you don't mind, Dad, I'd rather eat while I talk," urged Fred. "I have to be back at school before three."

"What—under discipline?" inquired the lawyer.

"No, sir; it's baseball that I wish to talk about."

"Well, then, Fred, what is it?" asked his father.

"Why, sir, we're going to get together on baseball, this afternoon. The start for the season is to be made early this year. Gridley expects to put forth the finest High School nine ever."

"I'm glad to hear that," nodded the lawyer. "School and college athletics, rightly indulged in, give the budding man health, strength, courage and discipline to take with him out into the battle of life. We didn't have much in the way of athletics when I was at college, but I appreciate the modern tendency more than do some men of my age."

Fred, though not interested in his father's praise of athletics waited patiently until his parent had finished.

"I'm pretty sure, Dad, I can make the chance of being the star pitcher on the school team for this coming season, if only you'll back me up in it."

"Why, as far as that goes," replied Lawyer Ripley, "I believe that about all the benefits of school athletics can be gained by one who isn't necessarily right at the top of the crowd."

"But not to go to the top of the crowd, and not to try too, Dad, is contrary to the spirit of athletics," argued Fred, rather cleverly. "Besides, one of the best things about athletics, I think, is the spirit to fight for leadership. That's a useful lesson—leadership—to carry out into life, isn't it, sir?"

"Yes, it is; you're right about that, son," nodded the lawyer.

"Well, sir, Everett, one of the crack pitchers of national fame, is over in Duxbridge for the winter. He doesn't go south with his team for practice until the middle or latter part of February. Duxbridge is only twelve miles from here. He could come over here, or you could let your man take me over to Duxbridge in your auto. Dad, I want to be the pitcher of the crack battery in the school nine. Will you engage Everett, or let me hire him, to train me right from the start in all the best styles of pitching?"

"How much would it cost?" asked the lawyer, cautiously.

"I don't know exactly, sir. A few hundred dollars, probably."

Fred's face was glowing with eagerness. His mother, who was standing just behind him, nodded encouragingly at her husband.

"Well, yes, Fred, if you're sure you can make yourself the star pitcher of the school nine, I will."

"When may I go to see Everett, sir?" asked Fred, making no effort to conceal the great joy this promise had given him.

"Since you're to be engaged for this afternoon, Fred, we'll make it to-morrow. I'll order out the car and go over to Duxbridge with you.".

It was in the happiest possible frame of mind, for him, that Fred Ripley went back to the High School that afternoon. He didn't arrive until five minutes before the hour for calling the meeting; he didn't care to be of the common crowd that would be on hand at or soon after two-thirty.

When he entered, he found a goodly and noisy crowd of some eighty High School boys of the three upper classes present. Ripley nodded to a few with whom he was on the best terms.

Settees had been placed at one end of the gym. There was an aisle between two groups of these seats.

"Gentlemen, you'll please come to order, now," called out Coach Luce, mounting to a small platform before the seats.

It took a couple of minutes to get the eager, half-turbulent throng seated in order. Then the coach rapped sharply, and instantly all was silence, save for the voice of the speaker.

"Gentlemen," announced Mr. Luce, "it is the plan to make the next season the banner one in baseball in all our school's history. This will call for some real work, for constantly sustained effort. Every man who goes into the baseball training squad will be expected to do his full share of general gymnastic work here, and to improve every favorable chance for such cross-country running and other outdoor sports as may be ordered.

"To-day, as we are so close to Christmas, we will arrange only the general details—have a sort of mapping-out, as it were. But immediately after the holidays the entire baseball squad that enrolls will be required to start at once to get in general athletic condition. There will be hard—what some may call grilling—gym. work at the outset, and much of the gym. work will be kept up even after the actual ball practice begins.

"Early in February work in the baseball cage must begin, and it will be made rather severe this year. In fact, I can assure you that the whole training, this coming year, will be something that none but those who mean to train in earnest can get through with successfully.

"Any man who is detected smoking cigarettes or using tobacco in any form, will be dropped from the squad instantly. Every man who enrolls will be required to make a promise to abstain, until the end of the ball season, from tobacco in any form.

"In past years we have often been urged to adopt the training table, in order that no greedy man may eat himself out of physical condition. It is not, of course, feasible to provide such a table here at the gym. I wish it were. But we will have training table to just this extent: Every member of the squad will be handed a list of the things he may eat or drink, and another list of those things that are barred. The only exception, in the way of departure, from the training list, will be the Christmas dinner. Every man who enrolls is in honor bound to stick closely to his list of permissible foods until the end of the training season.

"Remember, this year's work is to be one of the hardest work and all the necessary self-denial. It must be a disciplined and sustained effort for excellence and victory. Those who cannot accept these principles in full are urged not to enroll in the squad at all.

"Now, I will wait five minutes, during which conversation will be in order. When I call the meeting to order again I will ask all who have decided to enter the squad to occupy the seats here at my right hand, the others to take the seats at my left hand."

Immediately a buzz of talk ran around that end of the gym. The High School boys left their seats and moved about, talking over the coach's few but pointed remarks.

"How do you like Mr. Luce's idea, Dick?" asked Tom Reade.

"It's good down to the ground, and all the way up again," Dick retorted, enthusiastically. "His ideas are just the ideas I'm glad to hear put forward. No shirking; every effort bent on excelling, and every man to keep his own body as strong, clean and wholesome as a body can be kept. Why, that alone is worth more than victory. It means a fellow's victory over all sloth and bad habits!"

"Luce meant all he said, too, and the fellows know he did," declared Dave Darrin. "I wonder what effect it will have on the size of the squad?"

There was a good deal of curiosity on that score. The five minutes passed quickly. Then Coach Luce called for the division. As the new baseball squad gathered at the right-hand seats there was an eager counting.

"Forty-nine," announced Greg Holmes, as soon as he had finished counting. "Five whole nines and a few extras left over."

"I'm glad to see that Gridley High School grit is up to the old standard," declared Coach Luce, cheerily, after he had brought them to order. "Our squad, this year, contains three more men than appeared last year. It is plain that my threats haven't scared anyone off the Gridley diamond. Now, I am going to write down the names of the squad. Then I will ask each member, as his name is called, to indicate the position for which he wishes to qualify."

There was a buzz of conversation again, until the names had all been written down. Then, after Coach Luce had called for silence, he began to read off the names in alphabetical order.

"Dalzell?" asked the coach, when he had gone that far down on the list.

"First base," answered Dan, loudly and promptly.

"Darrin?"

"Pitcher," responded Dave.

There was a little ripple of surprise. When a sophomore goes in for work in the box it is notice that he has a good opinion of his abilities.

A few more names were called off. Then:

"Hazelton?"

"Short stop," replied Harry, coolly.

"Whew!" An audible gasp of surprise went up and traveled around.

After the battery, the post of short stop is the swiftest thing for which to reach out.

"Holmes?"

"Left field."

"It's plain enough," sneered Fred Ripley to the fellow beside him, "that Dick & Co., reporters and raga-muffins, expect to be two thirds of the nine. I wonder whom they'll allow to hold the other three positions?"

Several more names were called off. Then came:

"Prescott?"

"Pitcher," Dick answered, quietly.

A thrill of delight went through Fred. This was more luck than he had hoped for. What great delight there was going to be in beating out Dick Prescott!

"Reade?"

"Second base."

"Ripley?"

"P-p-pitcher!" Fred fairly stuttered in his eagerness to get the word out emphatically. In fact, the word left him so explosively that several of the fellows caught themselves laughing.

"Oh, laugh, then, hang you all!" muttered Fred, in a low voice, glaring all around him. "But you don't know what you're laughing at. Maybe I won't show you something in the way of real pitching!"

"The first Tuesday after the holidays' vacation the squad will report here for gymnastic work from three-thirty to five," called the coach. "Now, I'll talk informally with any who wish to ask questions."

Fred Ripley's face was aglow with satisfaction. His eyes fairly glistened with his secret, inward triumph.

"So you think you can pitch, Prescott?" he muttered to himself. "Humph! With the great Everett training me for weeks, I'll make you look like a pewter monkey, Dick Prescott."

VII. DAVE TALKS WITH ONE HAND

The next afternoon Fred and his father went over to Duxbridge.

They found the great Everett at home, and not only at home, but willing to take up with their proposal.

The celebrated professional pitcher named a price that caused Lawyer Ripley to hesitate for a few moments. Then catching the appealing look in his son's face, the elder Ripley agreed to the terms. The training was to be given at Duxbridge, in Everett's big and almost empty barn.

That night Lawyer Ripley, a man of prompt habit in business, mailed his check for the entire amount.

Fred, in the privacy of his own room, danced several brief but exuberant jigs.

"Now, I've got you, Dick Prescott! And I've not only got you, but if you come in second to me, I'll try to keep in such condition that I pitch every important game of the whole season!"

But the next morning the Ripley heir received a sad jolt. In one of his text-books he ran across a piece of cardboard on which was printed, in coarse characters:

"Tuday, same plas, same time. Bring ten. Or don't, if you dare!"

"That infernal blackmailer, Tip Scammon!" flared Fred indignantly.

In the courage of desperation Fred promptly decided that he would ignore the Scammon rascal. Nor did Fred change his mind. Besides, this afternoon he was due at Duxbridge for his first lesson under the mighty Everett.

So Tip was on hand at the drug store beside the post office, but no Fred came. Tip scowled and hung about in the neighborhood until after four o'clock. Then he went away, a black look indeed on his not handsome face.

Meanwhile, most of the people of Gridley, as elsewhere in the Christian world, were thinking of "Peace on Earth" and all that goes with it. The stores were radiant with decorations and the display of gifts. The candy stores and hot soda places were doing a rushing business.

Dick, who had been scurrying about in search of a few news paragraphs, and had found them, encountered Dave Darrin. Being something of a capitalist in these days, when "The Blade" was paying him two and a half to three dollars a week, Prescott invited his chum in to have a hot soda. While they were still in the place Laura Bentley and Belle Meade entered. The High School boys lifted their hats courteously to the girls and Dick invited them to have their soda with Dave and himself.

"We hear that baseball is going to be a matter of great enthusiasm during the next few months," said Laura, as they sipped their soda.

"Yes; and the cause of no end of heartburnings and envies," laughed Prescott. "From just after the holidays to some time in April every fellow will be busy trying to make the school team, and will feel aggrieved if he hits only the second team."

"Who's going to pitch for the school nine?" asked Belle.

"Dick Prescott," declared Dave instantly.

"I'd like to," nodded Dick, "but I've several good men against me. Darrin may take it all away from me. There are eight men down for pitching, altogether, so it isn't going to be an easy cinch for anyone."

"The nine always has more than one pitcher. Why can't you make the position of pitcher, too?" asked Belle, looking at Dave.

"Oh, I may make the job of brevet-pitcher on the second nine," Dave laughed goodhumoredly. "The only reason I put my name down for pitcher was so as to make the fight look bigger."

"Who are the other candidates for pitcher?" asked Laura.

"Well, Ripley's one," replied Dave.

"Ripley? Oh, he!" uttered Miss Bentley, in a tone of scorn.

"I understand he's no fool of a pitcher," Dick remarked.

"I congratulate him, then," smiled Laura.

"On what?"

"Not being a fool in everything," returned Laura. Then she added, quickly:

"I'm afraid that expresses my real opinion, but I've no right to say it."

"There are two reasons why you shouldn't say it," added Dave, gravely.

"What are they?" Laura wanted to know.

"First of all—well, pardon me, but it sounds like talking about another behind his back. The other reason is that Ripley isn't worth talking about, anyway."

"Now, what are you doing?" demanded Belle.

"Oh, well," Dave replied, "Ripley knows my opinion of him pretty well. But what are you doing this afternoon?"

"We're going shopping," Laura informed the boys as the quartette left the soda fountain. "Do you care to go around with us and look at the displays in the stores?"

"That's about all shopping means, isn't it?" smiled Dick. "Just going around and looking at things?"

"Then if you don't care to come with us——" pouted Miss Bentley.

"Stop—please do, I beg of you," Dick hastily added. "Of course we want to go."

The two chums put in a very pleasant hour wandering about through the stores with the High School girls. Laura and Belle did make some small purchases of materials out of which they intended to make gifts for the approaching holiday.

As they came out of the last store they moved toward the corner, the girls intending to take a car to pay a little visit to an aunt of Laura's before the afternoon was over.

Dick saw something in one of the windows at the corner and signed to Dave to come over. The two girls were left, momentarily, standing on the corner.

While they stood thus Fred Ripley came along. His first lesson in pitching had been brief, the great Everett declining to tire the boy's arm too much at the first drill. So young Ripley, after a twelve-mile trip in the auto through the crisp December air, came swinging down the street at a brisk walk.

Just as this moment he espied the two girls, though he did not see Dick or Dave. Belle happened to turn as Ripley came near her.

"Hullo, Meade!" he called, patronizingly.

It is a trick with some High School boys thus to address a girl student by her last name only, but it is not the act of a gentleman. Belle resented it by stiffening at once, and glancing coldly at Ripley without greeting him.

In another instant Dave Darrin, at a bound, stood before the astonished Fred. Dave's eyes were flashing in a way they were wont to do when he was thoroughly angry.

"Ripley—you cur! To address a young woman in that familiar fashion!" glared Dave.

"What have you to say about it?" demanded Fred, insolently.

"This!" was Dave Darrin's only answer in words.

Smack! His fist landed on one side of Fred's face. The latter staggered, then slipped to the ground.

"There's the car, Dick," uttered Dave, in a low tone. "Put the girls aboard."

Half a dozen passers-by had already turned and were coming back to learn the meaning of this encounter. Dick understood how awkward the situation would be for the girls, so he glided forward, hailed the car, and led Laura and Belle out to it.

"But I'd rather stay," whispered Belle, in protest. "I want to make sure that Dave doesn't get into any trouble."

"He won't," Dick promised. "It'll save him annoyance if he knows you girls are not being stared at by curious rowdies."

Dick quickly helped the girls aboard the car, then nodded to the conductor to ring the bell. A second later Dick was bounding back to his chum's side.

Fred Ripley was on his feet, scowling at Dave Darrin. The latter, though his fists were not up, was plainly in an attitude where he could quickly defend himself.

"That was an unprovoked assault, you rowdy!" Fred exclaimed wrathfully.

"I'd trust to any committee of gentlemen to exonerate me," Dave answered coolly. "You acted the rowdy, Ripley, and you'd show more sense if you admitted it and reformed."

"What did he do?" demanded one of the curious ones in the crowd.

"He addressed a young lady with offensive familiarity," Dave replied hotly.

"What did you do?" demanded another in the crowd.

"I knocked him down," Dave admitted coolly.

"Well, that's about the proper thing to do," declared another bystander. "The Ripley kid has no kick coming to him. Move on, young feller!"

Fred started, glaring angrily at the speaker. But half a dozen pressed forward about him. Ripley's face went white with rage when he found himself being edged off the sidewalk into the gutter.

"Get back, there, you, and leave me alone!" he ordered, hoarsely.

A laugh from the crowd was the first answer. Then some one gave the junior a shove that sent him spinning out into the street.

Ripley darted by the crowd now, his caution and his dread of too much of a scene coming to his aid. Besides, some one had just called out, banteringly:

"Why not take him to the horse trough?"

That decided Fred on quick retreat. Ducked, deservedly, by a crowd on Main Street, Ripley could never regain real standing in the High School, and he knew that.

As soon as they could Dick and Dave walked on to "The Blade" office. Here Darrin took a chair in the corner, occasionally glancing almost enviously at Prescott, as the latter, seated at a reporter's table, slowly wrote the few little local items that he had picked up during the afternoon. When Dick had finished he handed his "copy" to Mr. Pollock, and the chums left the office.

"Dick, old fellow," hinted Dave, confidentially, "I'm afraid I ought to give you a tip, even though it does make me feel something like a spy."

"Under such circumstances," smiled Prescott, "it might be well to think twice before giving the tip."

"I've thought about it seventeen times already," Dave asserted, gravely, "and you're my chum, anyway. So here goes. When we were in the department store, do you remember that the girls were looking over some worsteds, or yarns, or whatever you call the stuff?"

"Yes," Prescott nodded.

"Well, I couldn't quite help hearing Laura Bentley say to Belle that the yarn she picked up was just what she wanted for you."

"What on earth did that mean?" queried Dick, looking almost startled.

"It means that you're going to get a Christmas present from Laura," Dave answered.

"But I never had a present from a girl before!"

"Most anything is likely to happen," laughed Dave, "now that you're a sophomore—and a reporter, too."

"Thank goodness I'm earning a little money now," murmured Dick, breathing a bit rapidly. "But, say, Dave!"

"Well?"

"What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?"

"Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons—oh, hang it! I don't know," floundered Dave hopelessly. "Anyway, I don't have to know. It's your scrape, Dick Prescott!"

"Yours, too, Dave Darrin!"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too."

"Great Scott!" groaned Dave. "Say, what do you suppose they're planning to put up on us for a Christmas job? Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?"

VIII. HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS

The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter.

Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for "The Blade."

Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not call him. When, at last, Dick did appear in the dining room he found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother. When he had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said:

"Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you'll find something that came for you this morning."

"But, first of all, mother, I've something for you and Dad."

Dick went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material. It wasn't much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make his parents. He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words of appreciation.

"But you're forgetting the package in the parlor," persisted Mrs. Prescott presently.

Dick nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself:

"The worsted slippers from the girls, I suppose."

To his surprise the boy found Dave Darrin sitting in the room, while, on a chair near by rested a rather bulky package.

After exchanging "Merry Christmas" greetings with Darrin, Dick turned to look at the package. To it was tied a card, which read:

"From Laura Bentley and Isabelle Meade, with kindest Christmas greetings."

"That doesn't look like slippers, Dave," murmured Dick, as he pulled away the cord that bound the package.

"I'll bet you're getting a duplicate of what came to me," Darrin answered.

"What was that?"

"I'm not going to tell you until I see yours."

Dick quickly had the wrapper off, unfolding something woolleny.

"That's it!" cried Dave, jubilantly. "I thought so. Mine was the same, except that Belle's name was ahead of Laura's on the card."

Dick felt almost dazed for an instant. Then a quick rush of color came to his face.

The object that he held was a bulky, substantial, woven "sweater." Across the front of it had been worked, in cross-stitch, the initials, "G.H.S."

"Gridley High School! Did you get one just like this, Dave?"

"Yes."

"But we can't wear 'em," muttered Dick. "The initials are allowed only to the students who have made some school team, or who have captured some major athletic event. We've never done either."

"That's just the point of the gift, I reckon," beamed Darrin.

"Oh, I see," cried Dick. "These sweaters are our orders to go ahead and make the baseball nine."

"That's just it," declared Dave.

"Well, it's mighty fine of the girls," murmured Dick, gratefully. "Are you—going to accept yours, Dave?"

"Accept?" retorted Dave. "Why, it would be rank not to."

"Of course," Prescott agreed.. "But you know what acceptance carries with it? Now, we've got to make the nine, whether or not. We pledge ourselves to that in accepting these fine gifts."

"Oh, that's all right," nodded Dave, cheerily. "You're going to make the team."

"If there's any power in me to do it," declared Dick.

"And you're going to drag me in after you. Dick, old fellow, we've absolutely as good as promised that we will make the nine."

Dick Prescott was now engaged in pulling the sweater over his head. This accomplished, he stood surveying himself in the glass.

"Gracious! But this is fine," gasped young Prescott. "And now, oh, Dave, but we've got to hustle! Think how disgusted the girls will be if we fail."

"We can't fail, now," declared Dave earnestly. "The girls, and the sweaters themselves, are our mascots against failure."

"Good! That's the right talk!" cheered Prescott, seizing his chum's hand. "Yes, sir! We'll make the nine or bury ourselves under a shipload of self-disgust!"

"Both of the girls must have a hand in each sweater," Dave went on, examining Dick's closely. "I can't see a shade of difference between yours and mine. But I'm afraid the other fellows in Dick & Co. will feel just a bit green with envy over our good luck."

"It's a mighty fine gift," Dick went on, "yet I'm almost inclined to wish the girls hadn't done it. It must have made a big inroad in their Christmas money."

"That's so," nodded Darrin, thoughtfully. "But say, Dick! I'm thundering glad I got wind of this before it happened. Thank goodness we didn't have to leave the girls out. Though we would have missed if it hadn't been for you."

"I wonder how the girls like their gifts?" mused Dick.

It was sheer good luck that had enabled these youngsters to make a good showing. A new-style device for women, consisting of heater and tongs for curling the hair, was on the market this year. Electric current was required for the heater, but both Laura and Belle had electric light service in their homes. This new-style device was one of the fads of this Christmas season. The retail price was eight dollars per outfit, and a good many had been sold before the holidays. The advertising agent for the manufacturing concern had been in town, and had presented "The Blade" with two of these devices. Despite the eight-dollar price, the devices cost only a small fraction of that amount to manufacture, so the advertising agent had not been extremely generous in leaving the pair.

"What on earth shall we do with them?" grunted Pollock, in Dick's hearing. "We're all bachelors here."

"Sell 'em to me, if you don't want 'em," spoke up Dick, quickly. "What'll you take for 'em? Make it low, to fit a schoolboy's shallow purse."

"Hm! I'll speak to the proprietor about it," replied Pollock, who presently brought back the word:

"As they're for you, Dick, the proprietor says you can take the pair for two-fifty. And if you're short of cash, I'll take fifty cents a week out of your space bill until the amount is paid."

"Fine and dandy!" uttered Dick, his eyes glowing.

"One's for your mother," hinted Mr. Pollock teasingly. "But who's the girl?"

"Two girls," Dick corrected him, unabashed. "My mother never uses hair-curlers."

"Two girls?" cried Mr. Pollock, looking aghast. "Dick! Dick! You study history at the High School, don't you?"

"Yes, sir; of course."

"Then don't you know, my boy, how often two girls have altered the fates of whole nations? Tremble and be wise!"

"I haven't any girl," Dick retorted, sensibly, "and I think a fellow is weak-minded to talk about having a girl until he can also talk authoritatively on the ability to support a wife. But there's a good deal of social life going on at the High School, Mr. Pollock, and I'm very, very glad of this chance to cancel my obligations so cheaply and at the same time rather handsomely."

So Laura and Belle had each received, that Christmas morning, a present that proved a source of delight.

"Yet I didn't expect the foolish boys to send me anything like this," Laura told herself, rather regretfully. "I'm sure they've pledged their pocket money for weeks on this."

When Belle called, it developed that she had received an identical gift.

"It's lovely of the boys," Belle admitted. "But it's foolish, too, for they've had to use their pocket money away ahead, I'm certain."

Dick and Dave had sent their gifts, as had the girls, in both names.

Christmas was a day of rejoicing among all of the High School students except the least-favored ones.

Fred Ripley, however, spent his Christmas day in a way differing from the enjoyments of any of the others. A new fever of energy had seized the young man. In his fierce determination to carry away the star pitchership, especially from Dick Prescott, Ripley employed even Christmas afternoon by going over to Duxbridge and taking another lesson in pitching from the great Everett.

IX. FRED PITCHES A BOMBSHELL INTO TRAINING CAMP

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!

"Halt! Rest!"

"Attention! Overhead to front and back. Commence! One, two, three, four!"

Coach Luce's voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military command.

The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees.

Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap. It was followed by work with the Indian clubs. Then, after a brief rest, the entire squad took to the track in the gallery. For ten minutes the High School young men jogged around the track. Any fellow in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath.

As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath. Mr. Luce was what the boys called a "griller," and he certainly knew all about whipping a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape.

This training work was now along in the third week of the new winter term.

Three times weekly the squad had been assembled. On other days of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times.

Every member of the big squad now began to feel "hard as nails." Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work, had now grown too well seasoned to ache. Every member of the squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power. Hard, bumpy muscles were not being cultivated. The long, smooth, lithe and active "Indian" muscle, built more for endurance than for great strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce.

After the jogging came a halt for rest. Luce now addressed them.

"Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work is good for you, you're all of you anxious to see the production of the regular League ball on this floor. Now, the baseball cage will not be put up for a few days yet. However, this afternoon, for the rest of our tour, I'm going to produce the ball!"

A joyous "hurrah!" went up from the squad. The ball was the real thing in their eyes.

Coach Luce turned away to one of the spacious cupboard lockers, returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat with well wrapped handle.

"I'll handle the bat," announced Mr. Luce, smiling. "It's just barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than some of you, and put it nearer where I want it. Until the cage is in place, I don't like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium windows. Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?"

Naturally, all of them were. Yet none liked to appear too forward or greedy, so silence followed.

"I'll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then," laughed the coach. Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him as catcher, Luce continued:

"Darrin, as you're a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the things you can do to fool a batsman."

Dave took his post, his face a bit red. He handled the ball for a few moments, rather nervously.

"Don't get rattled, lad," counseled the coach. "Remember, this is just fun. Bear in mind that you're aiming to send the ball in to the catcher. Don't let the ball drive through a window by mistake."

A laugh went up at this. Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed back at the squad, then steadied himself.

"Now, then, let her drive—not too hard," ordered Mr. Luce.

Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve. It didn't fool the coach. He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling along the floor as a grounder.

"A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin," counseled the coach, after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it to this budding pitcher.

Dave's next delivery was struck down as easily. Then Darrin began to grow a bit angry and much more determined.

"Don't feel put out, Darrin," counseled the coach. "I had the batting record of my college when I was there, and I'm in better trim and nerve than you are yet. Don't be discouraged."

Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing.

"I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please."

Dick took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive balls by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck.

"You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work."

"I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as Dick rejoined his chums.

"No, you didn't," Dick retorted. "You showed what all of us show—that you need training to get into good shape. That's what the coach is working with us for."

"I'm betting on you and Dick for the team," put in Tom Reade, quickly.

"Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added Harry Hazelton.

"I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively.

"Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot."

"Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibed Hazelton, good-humoredly.

Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball.

"Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work. But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there. And vice versa!"

For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym.

"Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant. Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove the ball for the coach.

"Not quick enough on judgment," admonished Mr. Luce. "Now, we'll take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two. Ripley, suppose you try?"

Fred started and colored. Next, he looked pleased with himself as he strode jauntily forward.

"May I ask for my own catcher, sir?" Fred asked.

"Yes; certainly," nodded the coach.

"Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of a catcher won't do," jeered some one at the back of the crowd.

"Attention! Rip, the ladylike twirler!" sang out another teasing student.

"Let her rip, Rip!"

A good many were laughing. Fred was not popular. Many tolerated him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of comradeship. Yet the lawyer's son was no prime favorite.

"Order!" rapped out the coach, sharply. "This is training work. You'll find the minstrel show, if that's what you want, at the opera house next Thursday night."

"How well the coach keeps track of minstrel shows!" called another gibing voice.

"That was you, Parkinson!" called Mr. Luce, with mock severity. "Run over and harden your funny-bone on the punching bag. Run along with you, now!"

Everybody laughed, except Parkinson, who grinned sheepishly.

"Training orders, Parkinson!" insisted the coach. "Trot right over and let the funny-bone of each arm drive at the bag for twenty-five times. Hurry up. We'll watch you."

So Mr. Parkinson, of the junior class, seeing that the order was a positive one, had the good sense to obey. He "hardened" the funny-bone of either arm against the punching bag to the tune of jeering laughter from the rest of the squad. That was Coach Luce's way of dealing with the too-funny amateur humorist.

Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered some words of instruction to him.

"Now, come on, Ripley," ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over an imaginary plate. "Let her come in about as you want to."

"He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they saw Fred moisten his fingers.

"That's a hard one for a greenhorn to put over," added another.

Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling at Duxbridge for some weeks now.

Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his finger tips. Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate. It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far. Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his bat ever so little. Then he struck. But the spit ball, having traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches. The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the coach, gathered in the ball.

Luce was anything but mortified. A gleam of exultation lit up his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head. In a swift outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity as a submaster.

"Wow!" yelled the coach. "That was a bird! A lulu-cooler and a scalp-taker! Ripley, I reckon you're the new cop that runs the beat!"

It took the High School onlookers a few seconds to gather the full importance of what they had seen. Then a wild cheer broke loose:

"Ripley? Oh, Ripley'll pitch for the nine!" surged up on all sides.

X. DICK & CO. TAKE A TURN AT FEELING GLUM

"What's the matter with Ripley?" yelled one senior.

And another answered, hoarsely:

"Nothing! He's a wonder!"

Fred Ripley was unpopular. He was regarded as a cad and a sneak. But he could pitch ball! He could give great aid in bringing an unbroken line of victories to Gridley. That was enough.

By now Coach Luce was a bit red in the face. He realized that his momentary relapse into the old college enthusiasm had made him look ridiculous, in his other guise of High School submaster.

But when the submaster coach turned and saw Parkinson butting his head against the punching bag he called out:

"What's the matter, Parkinson?"

"Subbing for you, sir!"

That turned the good-natured laugh of a few on Mr. Luce. Most of those present, however, had not been struck by the unusualness of his speech.

Dick and Dave looked hard at each other. Both boys wanted to make the team as pitchers. Yet now it seemed most certain that Fred Ripley must stand out head and shoulders over any other candidates for the Gridley box.

Dick's face shone with enthusiasm, none the less. If he couldn't make the nine this year, he could at least feel that Gridley High School was already well on toward the lead over all competing school nines.

"I wish it were somebody else," muttered Dave, huskily, in his chum's ear.

"Gridley is fixed for lead, anyway," replied Dick, "if Ripley can always keep in such form as that."

"Can Ripley do it again?" shouted one Gridley senior.

"Try it, and see, Ripley," urged Mr. Luce, again swinging his bat.

Fred had been holding the returned ball for a minute or two. His face was flushed, his eyes glowing. Never before had he made such a hit among his schoolmates. It was sweet, at last, to taste the pleasures of local fame.

He stood gazing about him, drinking in the evident delight of the High School boys. In fact he did not hear the coach's order until it came again.

"Try another one, Ripley!"

The young man moistened his fingers, placing the ball carefully. Of a sudden his arm shot out. Again the coach struck for what looked a fair ball, yet once more Mr. Luce fanned air and the catcher straightened up, ball in hand.

Pumph! The lazily thrown ball landed in Ripley's outstretched left. He moistened his fingers, wet the ball, and let drive almost instantly. For the third time Mr. Luce fanned out.

Then Fred spoke, in a tone of satisfied self-importance:

"Coach, that's all I'll do this afternoon, if you don't mind."

"Right," nodded Mr. Luce. "You don't want to strain your work before you've really begun it any other candidates for pitching want to have a try now?"

As the boys of the squad waited for an answer, a low laugh began to ripple around the gym. The very idea of any fellow trying after Ripley had made his wonderful showing was wholly funny!

Coach Luce called out the names of another small squad to scatter over the gym. and to throw the ball to anyone he named. Except for the few who were in this forced work, no attention was paid to the players.

Fred Ripley had walked complacently to one side of the gym. A noisy, gleeful group formed around him.

"Rip, where did you ever learn that great work?"

"Who taught you?"

"Say, how long have you been hiding that thousand-candle-power light under a bushel?"

"Rip, it was the greatest work I ever saw a boy do."

"Will you show me—after the nine has been made up, of course?"

"How did you ever get it down so slick?"

This was all meat to the boy who had long been unpopular.

"I always was a pretty fair pitcher, wasn't I?" asked Fred.

"Yes; but never anything like the pitcher you showed us to-day," glowed eager Parkinson.

"I've been doing a good deal of practicing and study since the close of last season," Fred replied importantly. "I've studied out a lot of new things. I shan't show them all, either, until the real season begins."

Fred's glance, in roaming around, took in Dick & Co. For once, these six very popular sophomores had no one else around them.

"Whew! I think I've taken some wind out of the sails of Mr. Self-satisfied Prescott," Fred told himself jubilantly. "We shan't hear so much about Dick & Co. for a few months!"

"Well, anyway, Dick," said Tom Reade, "you and Dave needn't feel too badly. If Ripley turns out to be the nine's crack pitcher, the nine also carries two relief pitchers. You and Dave have a chance to be the relief pitchers. That will make the nine for you both, anyway. But, then, that spitball may be the only thing Ripley knows."

"Don't fool yourself," returned Prescott, shaking his head. "If Ripley can do that one so much like a veteran, then he knows other styles of tossing, too. I'm glad for Gridley High School—mighty glad. I wouldn't mind on personal grounds, either, if only—if——"

"If Fred Ripley were only a half decent fellow," Harry Hazelton finished for him.

Coach Luce soon dismissed the squad for the day. A few minutes later the boys left the gym. in groups. Of course the pitching they had seen was the sole theme. Ripley didn't have to walk away alone to-day. Coach Luce and a dozen of the boys stepped along with him in great glee.

"It's Rip! Old Rip will be the most talked about fellow in any High School league this year," Parkinson declared, enthusiastically.

Even the fellows who actually despised Fred couldn't help their jubilation. Gridley was strong in athletics just because of the real old Gridley High School spirit. Gridley's boys always played to win. They made heroes of the fellows who could lead them to victory after victory.

Fred was far on his way home ere the last boy had left him.

"I'll get everything in sight now," Ripley told himself, in ecstasy, as he turned in at the gateway to his home. "Why, even if Prescott does get into the relief box, I can decide when he shall or shall not pitch. I'll never see him get a big game to pitch in. Oh, but this blow to-day has hurt Dick Prescott worse than a blow over the head with an iron stake could. I've wiped him up and put him down again. I've made him feel sick and ashamed of his puny little inshoot! Prescott, you're mine to do as I please with on this year's nine—if you can make it at all!"

In truth, though young Prescott kept a smiling face, and talked cheerily, he could hardly have been more cast down than he was. Dick always went into any sport to win and lead, and he had set his heart on being Gridley's best man in the box. But now——

Dick & Co. all felt that they needed the open air after the grilling and the surprise at the gym. So they strolled, together, on Main Street, for nearly an hour ere they parted and went home to supper.

The next day the talk at school was mostly about Ripley, or "Rip," as he was now more intimately called.

Even the girls took more notice of him. Formerly Fred hadn't been widely popular among them. But now, as the coming star of the High School nine, and a new wonder in the school firmament, he had a new interest for them.

Half the girls, or more, were "sincere fans" at the ball games. Baseball was so much of a craze among them that these girls didn't have to ask about the points of the game. They knew the diamond and most of its rules.

Incense was sweet to the boy to whom it had so long been denied, but of course it turned "Rip's" head.

XI. THE THIRD PARTY'S AMAZEMENT

Eleven o'clock pealed out from the steeple of the nearest church.

The night was dark. Rain or snow was in the air.

In a shadow across the street hung Tip Scammon. His shabby cap was pulled down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his ragged reefer. Tip's eyes were turned toward the Ripley home opposite.

"To think o' that feller in a fine, warm, soft bed nights, an' all the swell stuff to eat at table!" muttered Tip, enviously. "And then me, out in the cold, wearing a tramp's clothes! Never sure whether to-morrer has a meal comin' with it! But, anyway, I can make that Ripley kid dance when I pull the string! He dances pretty tolerable frequent, too! He's got to do it to-night, an' he'd better hurry up some!"

Soon after the sound of the striking clock had died away, Tip's keen eyes saw a figure steal around one side of the house from the rear.

"Here comes Rip, now. He's on time," thought Tip. "Huh! It's a pity—fer—him that he wouldn't take a new think an' chase me. But he's like most pups that hire other folks to do their tough work—they hain't 't got no nerve o' their own."

Fred came stealthily out of the yard, after looking back at the house. He went straight up to young Scammon.

"So here ye are, pal," laughed Tip. "Glad ye didn't keep me waitin'. Ye brought the wherewithal?"

"See here, Tip, you scoundrel," muttered Fred, hoarsely, a worried look showing in his eyes, "I'm getting plumb down to the bottom of anything I can get for you."

"I told ye to bring twenty," retorted young Scammon, abruptly. "That will be enough."

"I couldn't get it," muttered Fred.

"Now, see here, pal," warned Tip, threateningly, "don't try to pull no roots on me. Ye can get all the money ye want."

"I couldn't this time," Fred contended, stubbornly. "I've got eleven dollars, and that's every bit I could get my hands on."

"But I've got to have twenty," muttered Tip, fiercely. "Now, ye trot back and look through yer Sunday-best suit. You have money enough; yer father's rich, an' he gives ye a lot. Now, ye've no business spendin' any o' that money until ye've paid me what's proper comin' to me. So back to the house with ye, and get the rest o' yer money!"

"It's no use, Tip. I simply can't get another dollar. Here's the eleven, and you'd better be off with it. I can't get any more, either, inside of a fortnight."

"See here," raged young Scammon, "if ye think ye can play——"

"Take this money and get off," demanded Fred, impatiently. "I'm going back home and to bed."

"I guess, boy, it's about time fer me to see your old man," blustered Tip. "If I hold off until to-morrer afternoon, will ye have the other nine, an' an extry dollar fer me trouble?"

"No," rasped Fred. "It's no use at all—not for another fortnight, anyway. Good night!"

Turning, Fred sped across the street and back under the shadows at the rear of the lawyer's great house.

"I wonder if the younker's gettin' wise?" murmured Tip. "He ain't smart enough to know that fer him to go to his old man an' tell the whole yarn 'ud be cheapest in the run. The old man 'ud be mad at Rip, but the old man's a lawyer, an' 'ud know how to lay down the blackmail law to me!"

Feeling certain that he was wholly alone by this time, Tip had spoken the words aloud or sufficiently so for him to be heard a few feet away by any lurker.

Shivering a bit, for he was none too warmly clad, young Scammon turned, making his way up the street.

Fully two minutes after Tip had gone his way Dick Prescott stepped out from behind the place where Tip had been standing.

There was a queer and rather puzzled look on Dick's face.

"So Fred's paying Tip money, and Tip knows it's blackmail?" muttered the sophomore. "That can mean just one thing then. When Tip held his tongue before and at his trial, last year, he was looking ahead to the time when he could extort money by threatening Fred. And now Tip's doing it. That must be the way he gets his living. Whew, but Ripley must be allowed a heap of spending money if he can stand that sort of drain!"

How Dick came to be on hand at the time can be easily explained. Earlier in the evening he had been at "The Blade" office. Mr. Pollock had asked him to go out on a news story that could be obtained by calling upon a citizen at his home. The story would be longer than Dick usually succeeded in turning in. It looked attractive to a boy who wanted to earn money, so the sophomore eagerly accepted the assignment.

As it happened, Dick had had to wait a long time at the house at which he called before the man he wanted to see returned home. Dick was on his way to "The Blade" office when he caught sight of Tip Scammon. The latter did not see or hear the sophomore approaching.

So Dick halted, darting behind a tree.

"Now, what's Tip doing down here, near the Ripley place?" wondered Prescott. "He must be waiting to see Fred. Then they must have an appointment. Dave always thought that Tip ambushed me with those brickbats at Fred Ripley's order. There may be something of that sort in the wind again. I guess I've got a right to listen."

Looking about him, Prescott saw a chance to slip into a yard, get over a fence, and creep up rather close to Scammon, though still being hidden from that scoundrel. At last Prescott found himself well hidden in the yard behind Tip.

So Dick heard the talk. Now, as he hurried back to "The Blade" office the young soph guessed shrewdly at the meaning of what he had heard.

"Now, what had I better do about it?" Dick Prescott asked himself. "What's the fair and honorable thing to do—keep quiet? It would seem a bit sneaky to go and tell Lawyer Ripley. Shall I tell Fred? I wonder if I could make him understand how foolish and cowardly it is to go on paying for a blackmailer's silence? Yet it's ten to one that Fred wouldn't thank me. Oh, bother it, what had a fellow better do in a case like this?"

A moment later, Dick laughed dryly.

"I know one thing I could do. I could go to Fred, tell him what I know, and scare him so he'd fall down in his effort to become the crack pitcher of the nine! My, but he'd go all to pieces if he thought I knew and could tell on him!"

Dick chuckled, then his face sobered, as he added:

"Fred's safe from that trick, though. I couldn't stand a glimpse of my own face in the mirror, afterward, if I did such a low piece of business."

Prescott was still revolving the whole thing in his mind when he reached "The Blade" office. He turned in the news story he bad been sent for. As he did so the news editor looked up to remark:

"We have plenty of room to spare in the paper to-night, Prescott."

"Yes? Well?"

"Can't you give us a few paragraphs of real High School news? Something about the state of athletics there?"

"Why, yes, of course," the young sophomore nodded.

Returning to the desk where he had been sitting, Dick ran off a few paragraphs on the outlook of the coming High School baseball season.

"Did you write that High School baseball stuff in this morning's paper, Dick?" asked Tom Reade, the next day.

"Yes."

"You said that the indications are that Ripley will be the crack pitcher this season, and that he is plainly going to be far ahead of all the other box candidates."

"That's correct, isn't it?" challenged Dick.

"It looks so, of course," Tom admitted. "But why did you give Ripley such a boost? He's no friend of yours, or ours."

"Newspapers are published for the purpose of giving information," Dick explained. "If a newspaper's writers all wrote just to please themselves and their friends, how many people do you suppose would buy the daily papers? Fred Ripley is the most prominent box candidate we have. He towers away over the rest of us. That was why I so stated it in 'The Blade.'"

"And I guess that's the only right way to do things when you're writing for the papers," agreed Darrin.

"It's a pity you can't print some other things about Ripley that you know to be true," grumbled Hazelton.

"True," agreed Dick, thoughtfully. "I'm only a green, amateur reporter, but I've already learned that a reporter soon knows more than he can print."

Prescott was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, the night before, between Fred and Tip.

After sleeping on the question for the night, Dick had decided that he would say nothing of the matter, for the present, either to the elder or the younger Ripley.

"If Fred found out that I knew all about it, he'd be sure that I was biding my time," was what Dick had concluded. "He'd be sure that I was only waiting for the best chance to expose him. On the other hand, if I cautioned his father, there'd be an awful row at the Ripley home. Either way, Fred Ripley would go to pieces. He'd lose what little nerve he ever had. After that he'd be no good at pitching. He'd go plumb to pieces. That might leave me the chance to be Gridley's crack pitcher this year. Oh, I'd like to be the leading pitcher of the High School nine! But I don't want to win the honor in any way that I'm not positive is wholly square and honorable."

Then, after a few moments more of thought:

"Besides, I'm loyal to good old Gridley High School. I want to see our nine have the best pitcher it can get—no matter who he is!"

By some it might be argued that Dick Prescott was under a moral obligation to go and caution Lawyer Ripley. But Dick hated talebearers. He acted up to the best promptings of his own best conscience, which is all any honorable man can do.

XII. TRYING OUT THE PITCHERS

"Oh, you Rip!"

"Good boy, Rip!"

"You're the winning piece of leather, Rip!"

"Get after him, Dick!"

"Wait till you see Prescott!"

"And don't you forget Dave Darrin, either!" Late in March, it was the biggest day of Spring out at the High School Athletic Field.

This field, the fruit of the labors of the Alumni Association for many years, was a model one even in the best of High School towns.

The field, some six acres in extent, lay well outside the city proper. It was a walled field, laid out for football, baseball, cricket and field and track sports. In order that even the High School girls might have a strong sense of ownership in it, the field also contained two croquet grounds, well laid out.

Just now, the whole crowd was gathered at the sides of the diamond. Hundreds were perched up on one of the stands for spectators.

Down on the diamond stood the members of the baseball squad. As far as the onlookers could see, every one of the forty-odd young men was in the pink of physical condition. The indoor training had been hard from the outset. Weeks of cage work had been gone through with in the gym. But from this day on, whenever it didn't rain too hard, the baseball training work was to take place on the field.

Coach Luce now stepped out of the little building in which were the team dressing rooms. As he went across the diamond he was followed by lusty cheers from High School boys up on the spectators' seats. The girls clapped their hands, or waved handkerchiefs. A few already carried the gold and crimson banners of Gridley. Besides the High School young people, there were a few hundred older people, who had come out to see what the youngsters were doing.

For this was the day on which the pitchers were to be tried out. Ripley was known to be the favorite in all the guessing. In fact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed that Dick, and possibly Dave, might be chosen as the relief pitchers.

Dick himself looked mighty solemn, as he stood by, apparently seeing but little of what was going on. Beside him stood Dave. The other four chums were not far off.

Another wild howl went up from the High School contingent when two more men were seen to leave the dressing room building and walk out toward Coach Luce. These were two members of the Athletic Committee, former students at Gridley High School. These two were to aid the coach in choosing the men for the school team. They would also name the members of the school's second team.

"Now, we'll try you out on pitching, if you're ready," announced Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class. The young fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game. He ran over to the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen. Luce took the bat and stood by the home plate. To-day the coach did not intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the candidates.

"Oh, we don't want the dub! Trot out Rip!" came a roaring chorus.

Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts or demands of spectators.

The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching, though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance.

"Now, run out Rip!" came the insistent chorus again, after this candidate had shown his curves and had gone back.

But it was another member of the junior class who came to the box for the next trial.

"Dead ball! Throw wild and cut it short!" came the advice from the seats.

Then a sophomore was tried out. But the crowd was becoming highly impatient.

"We want Rip! We demand Rip. Give us Rip or give us chloroform!" came the insistent clamor. "We'll come another day to see the dead ones, if you insist."

Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on fans as it wanted to be on players.

Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily, with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped in both hands, awaiting the signal.

Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself. The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers as Prescott or Darrin.

For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats stopped cheering to look on in some concern.

"Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low tone.

Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up to his form; the fourth, wholly so. Now, Fred sent in two more spitballs, then changed to other styles. He was pitching famously, now.

"That's all, unless you wish more, sir," announced Fred, finally, when the ball came back to him.

"It's enough. Magnificently done," called Coach Luce, after a glance at the two members of the Athletic Committee.

"Oh, you Rip!"

"Good old Rip!"

The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume.

Coach Luce signaled to Dick Prescott, who, coolly, yet with a somewhat pallid face, came forward to the box. He removed the wrapping from a new ball and took his post.

The cheering stopped now. Dick was extremely well liked in Gridley. Most of the spectators felt sorry for this poor young soph, who must make a showing after that phenomenon, Ripley.

"The first two or three don't need to count, Prescott," called Luce. "Get yourself warmed up."

Fred stood at the side, looking on with a sense of amusement which, for policy's sake, he strove to conceal.

"Great Scott! The nerve of the fellow!" gasped Ripley, inwardly, as he saw Prescott moisten his fingers. "He's going to try the spit-ball after what I've shown!"

The silence grew deeper, for most of the onlookers understood the significance of Dick's moistened fingers.

Dick drove in, Tom Reade catching. That first spit-ball was not quite as good as some that Ripley had shown. But Fred's face went white.

"Where did Prescott get that thing? He's been stealing from the little he has seen me do."

A shout of jubilation went up from a hundred throats now, for Dick had just spun his second spit-ball across the plate. It was equal to any that Ripley had shown.

"Confound the upstart! He's getting close to me on that style!" gasped the astonished Ripley.

Now, Dick held the ball for a few moments, rolling it over in his hands. An instant later, he unbent. Then he let drive. The ball went slowly toward the plate, with flat trajectory.

"Wow!" came the sudden explosion. It was a jump-ball, going almost to the plate, then rising instead of falling.

Three more of these Dick served, and now the cheering was the biggest of the afternoon. Fred Ripley's mouth was wide open, his breath coming jerkily.

Three fine inshoots followed. The hundreds on the seats were standing up now. Then, to rest his arm, Dick, who was wholly collected, and as cool as a veteran under fire, served the spectators with a glimpse of an out-curve that was not quite like any that they had ever seen before. This out-curve had a suspicion of the jump-ball about it.

Dick was pitching easily, now. He had gotten his warming and his nerve, and appeared to work without conscious strain.

"Do you want more, sir?" called Dick, at last.

"No," decided Coach Luce. "You've done enough, Prescott. Mr. Darrin!"

Dave ran briskly to the box, opening the wrappings on a new ball as he stepped into the box. After the first two balls Dave's exhibition was swift, certain, fine. He had almost reached Dick with his performance.

Ripley's bewildered astonishment was apparent in his face.

"Thunder, I'd no idea they could do anything like that!" gasped Fred to himself. "They're very nearly as good as I am. How in blazes did they ever get hold of the wrinkles? They can't afford a man like Everett."

"Any more candidates?" called Coach Luce. There weren't. No other fellow was going forward to show himself after the last three who had worked from the box.

There was almost a dead silence, then, while Coach Luce and the two members of the Athletics Committee conferred in whispers. At last the coach stepped forward.

"We have chosen the pitchers!" he shouted. Then, after a pause, Mr. Luce went on:

"The pitchers for the regular school nine will be Prescott, Darrin, Ripley, in the order named."

"Oh, you Dick!"

"Bang-up Prescott!"

"Reliable old Darrin!"

"Ripley—ugh!"

And now the fierce cheering drowned out all other cries. But Fred Ripley, his face purple with rage, darted forward before the judges.

"I protest!" he cried.

"Protests are useless," replied Mr. Luce. "The judges give you four points less than Darrin, and seven less than Prescott. You've had a fair show, Mr. Ripley."

"I haven't. I'm better than either of them!" bawled Fred, hoarsely, for the cheering was still on and he had to make himself heard.

"No use, Ripley," spoke up a member of the Athletics Committee. "You're third, and that's good enough, for we never before had such a pitching triumvirate."

"Where did these fellows ever learn to pitch to beat me?" jeered Fred, angrily. "They had no such trainer. Until he went south with his own team, I was trained by——"

Fred paused suddenly. Perhaps he had better not tell too much, after all.

The din from the seats had now died down.

"Well, Ripley, who trained you?" asked a member of the Athletics Committee.

Fred bit his lip, but Dick broke in quietly:

"I can tell. Perhaps a little confession will be good for us all around. Ripley was trained by Everett over at Duxbridge. I found out that much, weeks ago."

"You spy!" hissed Fred angrily, but Dick, not heeding his enemy, continued:

"The way Ripley started out, the first showing he made, Darrin and I saw that we were left in the stable. Candidly, we were in despair of doing anything real in the box, after Ripley got through. But I suppose all you gentlemen have heard of Pop Gint?"

"Gint! Old Pop?" demanded Coach Luce, a light glowing in his eyes. "Well, I should say so. Why, Pop Gint was the famous old trainer who taught Everett and a half dozen other of our best national pitchers all they first learned about style. Pop Gint is the best trainer of pitchers that ever was."

"Pop Gint is an uncle of Mr. Pollock, editor of 'The Blade,'" Dick went on, smilingly. "Pop Gint has retired, and won't teach for money, any more. But Mr. Pollock coaxed his uncle to train Darrin and myself. Right faithfully the old gentleman did it, too. Why, Pop Gint, today, is as much of a boy——"

"Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival. "Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off."

"I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over," replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School. In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse."

"Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away.

His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater. Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh, you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity, filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily quitted the athletic field.

Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng.

"Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been working under Pop Gint's training?"

"Between four and five weeks, sir."

"And Darrin the same length of time?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Dave.

"Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of trying for positions on the national teams when you're older."

"I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," Dick answered smilingly. "Eh, Dave?"

"Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can be more useful."

"I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're going to do in life?"

"Not quite," Dick replied. "But I think I know what we'd like to do when we're through with our studies."

There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except on the professional diamond.

"If anything should happen to Prescott and Darrin just before any of the big games," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working and find a way to make something happen?"

XIII. THE RIOT CALL AND OTHER LITTLE THINGS

"To your seat, Mr. Bristow! You're acting like a rowdy!"

Principal Cantwell uttered the order sharply.

Fully half the student body had gathered in the big assembly room at the High School. It was still five minutes before the opening hour, and there had been a buzz of conversation through the room.

The principal's voice was so loud that it carried through the room. Almost at once the buzz ceased as the students turned to see what was happening. Bristow had been skylarking a bit. Undoubtedly he had been more boisterous with one of the other fellows in the assembly room than good taste sanctioned.

Just as naturally, however, Bristow resented the style of rebuke from authority. The boy wheeled about, glaring at the principal.

"Go to your seat, sir!" thundered the principal, his face turning ghastly white from his suppressed rage.

Bristow wheeled once more, in sullen silence, to go to his seat. Certainly he did not move fast, but he was obeying.

"You mutinous young rascal, that won't do!" shot out from the principal's lips. In another instant Mr. Cantwell was crossing the floor rapidly toward the slow-moving offender.

"Get to your seat quickly, or go in pieces!" rasped out the angry principal.

Seizing the boy from behind by both shoulders, Mr. Cantwell gave him a violent push. Bristow tripped, falling across a desk and cutting a gash in his forehead.

In an instant the boy was up and wheeled about, blood dripping from the cut, but something worse flashing in his eyes.

The principal was at once terrified. He was not naturally courageous, but he had a dangerous temper, and he now realized to what it had brought him. Mr. Cantwell was trying to frame a lame apology when an indignant voice cried out:

"Coward!"

His face livid, the principal turned.

"Who said that?" he demanded, at white heat.

"I did!" admitted Purcell, promptly. Abner Cantwell sprang at this second "offender." But Purcell threw himself quickly into an attitude of defence.

"Keep your hands off of me, Mr. Cantwell, or I'll knock you down!"

"Good!"

"That's the talk!"

The excited High School boys came crowding about the principal and Purcell. Bristow was swept back by the surging throng. He had his handkerchief out, now, at his forehead.

"Some of you young men seize Purcell and march him to my private office," commanded the principal, who had lacked the courage to strike at the young fellow who stood waiting for him.

"Will you fight Purcell like a man, if we do?" asked another voice.

"Run Cantwell out! He isn't fit to be here!" yelled another voice.

Mr. Drake, the only submaster in the room at the time, was pushing his way forward.

"Calmly, boys, calmly," called Drake. "Don't do anything you'll be sorry for afterwards."

But those who were more hot headed were still pressing forward. It looked as though they were trying to get close enough to lay hands on the now trembling principal.

Under the circumstances, Mr. Cantwell did the very worst thing he could have done. He pushed three or four boys aside and made a break across the assembly room. Once out in the corridor, the principal dove into his private office, turning the key after him. Secure, now, and his anger once more boiling up, Mr. Cantwell rang his telephone bell. Calling for the police station, he called for Chief Coy and reported that mutiny and violence had broken loose in the High School.

"That seems almost incredible," replied Chief Coy. "But I'll come on the run with some of my men."

Several of the fellows made a move to follow the principal out into the corridor. Dick Prescott swung the door shut and threw himself against it. Dave Darrin and Tom Reade rushed to his support. The other chums got to him as quickly as they could.

"Nothing rash, fellows!" urged Dick. "Remember, we don't make the laws, or execute them. This business will be settled more to our satisfaction if we don't put ourselves in the wrong."

"Pull that fellow Prescott away from the door!" called Fred Ripley, anxious to start any kind of trouble against Dick & Co. Submaster Drake, forcing his way through the throng, calming the hottest-headed ones, turned an accusing look on Fred. The latter saw it and slunk back into the crowd.

Bristow, still holding his handkerchief to his head, darted out of the building.

Submaster Morton and Luce, bearing the excitement, came up from class rooms on the ground floor. They entered by the same door through which Bristow had left.

Over on the other side of the room, fearing that a violent riot was about to start, some of the girls began to scream. The women teachers present hurried among the girls, quieting them by reassuring words.

"Now, young gentlemen," called Mr. Drake, "we'll consider all this rumpus done with. Discipline reigns and Gridley's good name must be preserved!"

This brought a cheer from many, for Mr. Drake was genuinely respected by the boys as a good and fair-minded man. Such men as Drake, Morton or Luce could lead these warm-hearted boys anywhere.

Stepping quickly back to the platform, Drake sounded the bell. In an instant there was an orderly movement toward the desks. At the second bell all were seated.

"In the absence of the principal," began Mr. Drake, "I——"

A low-voiced laugh started in some quarters of the room.

"Silence!" insisted Mr. Drake, with dignity. "School has opened. I——"

He was interrupted by a new note. Out in the yard sounded the clanging of a bell, the quick trot of horses' feet and the roll of wheels. The boys looked at one another in unbelieving astonishment.

Then heavy steps sounded on the stairway. Outside Mr. Cantwell's voice could be heard:

"I'll take you inside, chief!"

In came the principal, his face now white from dread of what he had done, instead of showing the white-heat of passion. After him came Chief Coy and three policemen in uniform.

For at least a full half minute Chief Coy stood glancing around the room, where every student was in his seat and all was orderly. The boys returned the chief's look with wondering eyes. Then Mr. Coy spoke:

"Where's your riot, principal? Is this what you termed a mutiny?"

Mr. Cantwell, who had gone to his post behind the desk, appeared to find difficulty in answering.

"Humph!" muttered the chief, and, turning, strode from the room. His three policemen followed.

Then there came indeed an awkward silence.

Submaster Drake had abandoned the center of the stage to the principal. Mr. Cantwell found himself at some loss for words. But at last he began:

"Young ladies and young gentlemen, I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret the occurrences of this morning. Discipline is one of my greatest ideals, and this morning's mutiny——"

He felt obliged to pause there, for an angry murmur started on the boys' side, and traveled over to where the girls were seated:

"This morning's mutiny——" began the principal again.

The murmur grew louder. Mr. Cantwell looked up, more of fear than of anger in his eyes. Mr. Drake, who stood behind the principal, held up one hand appealingly. It was that gesture which saved the situation at that critical moment. The boys thought that if silence would please Mr. Drake, then he might have it.

"Pardon me, sir," whispered Drake in Cantwell's ear. "I wouldn't harp on the word mutiny, sir. Express your regret for the injury unintentionally done Bristow."

Mr. Cantwell wheeled abruptly.

"Who is principal here, Mr. Drake?"

"You are, sir."

"Then be good enough to let me finish my remarks."

This dialogue was spoken in an undertone, but the students guessed some inkling of its substance.

The submaster subsided, but Mr. Cantwell couldn't seem to remember, just then, what he wanted to say. So he stood gazing about the room. In doing this he caught sight of the face of Purcell.

"Mr. Purcell!" called the principal.

That young man rose, standing by his seat. "Mr. Purcell, you made some threat to me a few minutes ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was that threat?"

"I told you that, if you laid hands on me, I'd floor you."

"Would you have done it?"

"At the time, yes, sir. Or I'd have tried to do so."

"That is all. The locker room monitor will go with you to the basement. You may go for the day. When you come to-morrow morning, I will let you know what I have decided in your case."

Submaster Drake bit his lips. This was not the way to deal with a situation in which the principal had started the trouble. Mr. Drake wouldn't have handled the situation in this way, nor would Dr. Thornton, the former principal.

But Purcell, with cheerfulness murmured, "Very good, sir," and left the room, while many approving glances followed him.

Messrs. Morton and Luce shuffled rather uneasily in their seats. Mr. Cantwell began to gather an idea that he was making his own bad matter worse, so he changed, making an address in which he touched but lightly upon the incidents of the morning. He made an urgent plea for discipline at all times, and tried to impress upon the student body the need for absolute self-control.

In view of his own hasty temper that last part of the speech nearly provoked an uproar of laughter. Only respect for Mr. Drake and the other submasters prevented that. The women teachers, or most of them, too, the boys were sure, sided with them secretly.

The first recitation period of the morning was going by rapidly, but Mr. Cantwell didn't allow that to interfere with his remarks. At last, however, he called for the belated singing. This was in progress when the door opened. Mr. Eldridge, superintendent of schools, entered, followed by Bristow's father. That latter gentleman looked angry.

"Mr. Cantwell, can you spare us a few moments in your office?" inquired Mr. Eldridge.

There was no way out of it. The principal left with them. In a few minutes there was a call for Mr. Drake. Then two of the women teachers were sent for. Finally, Dick Prescott and three or four of the other boys were summoned. On the complaint of a very angry parent Superintendent Eldridge was holding a very thorough investigation. Many statements were asked for and listened to.

"I think we have heard enough, haven't we, Mr. Eldridge?" asked the elder Bristow, at last. "Shall I state my view of the affair now?"

"You may," nodded the superintendent.

"It is plain enough to me," snorted Mr. Bristow, "that this principal hasn't self-control enough to be charged with teaching discipline to a lot of spirited boys. His example is bad for them—continually bad. However, that is for the Board of Education to determine. My son will not come to school to-day, but he will attend to-morrow. As the first step toward righting to-day's affair I shall expect Mr. Cantwell to address, before the whole student body, an ample and satisfactory apology to my son. I shall be present to hear that apology myself."

"If it is offered," broke in Principal Cantwell, sardonically, but Superintendent Eldridge held up a hand to check him.

"If you don't offer the apology, to-morrow morning, and do it properly," retorted Mr. Bristow, "I shall go to my lawyer and instruct him to get out a warrant charging you with felonious assault. That is all I have to say, sir. Mr. Eldridge, I thank you, sir, for your very prompt and kind help. Good morning, all!"

"At the close of the session the principal wishes to see Mr. Prescott," read Mr. Cantwell from the platform just before school was dismissed that afternoon.

Dick waited in some curiosity.

"Mr. Prescott, you write for 'The Blade,' don't you?" asked Mr. Cantwell.

"Sometimes, sir."

"Then, Mr. Prescott, please understand that I forbid you to write anything for publication concerning this morning's happenings."

Dick remained silent.

"You will not, will you?"

"That, Mr. Cantwell, is a matter that seems to rest between the editor and myself."

"But I have forbidden it," insisted the principal, in surprise.

"That is a matter, sir, about which you will have to see the editor. Here at school, Mr. Cantwell, I am under your orders. At 'The Blade' office I work under Mr. Pollock's instructions."

The principal looked as though he were going to grow angry. On the whole, though, he felt that he had had enough of the consequences of his own wrath for one day. So he swallowed hard and replied:

"Very good, then, Mr. Prescott. I shall hold you responsible for anything you publish that I may consider harmful to me."

Dick did print an account of the trouble at school. He confined himself to a statement of the facts that he had observed with his own eyes. Editorially "The Blade" printed a comment to the effect that such scenes would have been impossible under the much-missed Dr. Thornton.

Mr. Cantwell didn't have anything disagreeable to say to Dick Prescott the next morning. Purcell took up the burden of his studies again without comment. The principal did apologize effectively to young Bristow before the student body, while the elder Bristow stood grimly by.

XIV. THE STEAM OF THE BATSMAN

All of Dick & Co. had made the High School nine, though not all as star players in their positions.

Holmes had won out for left field, and Hazelton for shortstop. As far as the early outdoor practice showed, the latter was going to be the strongest man of the school in that important position.

Dalzell and Reade became first and second basemen.

During the rest of March practice proceeded briskly. Six days in every week the youngsters worked hard at the field in the afternoons. When it rained they put in their time at the gym.

On the second of April Coach Luce called a meeting of the baseball squad at the gym.

"We're a week, now, from our first game, gentlemen," announced the coach. "I want you all to be in flawless condition from now on. I will put a question to you, now, on your honor. Has any man broken training table?"

No one spoke or stirred. Ripley, who had gotten over the worst of his sulks, was present, but he did not admit any of his many breaches of the training table diet that he was pledged to follow at home.

"Has any man used tobacco since training began?" continued the coach.

Again there was silence.

"I am gratified to note that I can't get a response to either question," smiled Mr. Luce. "This assures me that every one of you has kept in the strictest training. It will show as soon as you begin to meet Gridley's opponents in the field.

"Faithful observance of all training rules bespeaks a good state of discipline. In all sports, and in team sports especially, discipline is our very foundation stone. Every man must sacrifice himself and his feelings for the good of the team. Each one of you must forget, in all baseball matters, that he is an individual. He must think of himself only as a spoke in the wheel.

"During the baseball season I want every man of you in bed by nine-thirty. On the night before a game turn in at eight-thirty. Make up your minds that there shall be no variation from this. In the mornings I want every man, when it isn't raining, to go out and jog along the road, in running shoes and sweaters, for twenty minutes without a break; for thirty minutes, instead, on any morning when you can spare the time.

"Whenever you can do so, practice swift, short sprints. Many a nine, full of otherwise good men, loses a game or a season's record just because this important matter of speedy base running has been neglected.

"Not only this, but I want every one of you to be careful about the method of sprinting. The man who runs flat-footedly is using up steam and endurance. Run balanced well forward on the balls of your feet. Throw your heels up; travel as though you were trying to kick the backs of your thighs. Breathe through the nose, always, in running, and master to the highest degree the trick of making a great air reservoir of your lungs. We have had considerable practice, both in jogging and in sprinting, but this afternoon I am going to sprint each man in turn, and I'm going to pick all his flaws of style or speed to small pieces. We will now adjourn to the field for that purpose. Remember, that a batsman has two very valuable assets—his hitting judgment and his running steam. Wagons are waiting outside, and we'll now make quick time to the field."

Arriving there, Coach Luce led them at once to the dressing rooms.

"Now, then, we want quick work!" he called after the sweaters and ball shoes had been hurriedly donned.

"Now let us go over to the diamond; go to the home plate as I call the names. Darrin Ripley-Prescott-Reade-Purcell——"

And so on. The young men named made quick time to the plate.

"You're up, Darrin. Run! Two bases only. Halt at second! Ripley, run! Reade, run! Not on your flat feet, Ripley. Up on your toes, man! Reade, more steam!"

Then others were given the starting word. Coach did not run more men at a time than he could readily watch.

"Prescott, throw your feet up behind better. You've been jogging, but that isn't the gait. Holmes, straighten back more—don't cramp your chest!"

So the criticisms rang out. Luce was an authority on short sprinting. He had made good in that line in his own college days.

"Jennison, you're not running with your arms! Forget 'em!"

Jennison promptly let his arms hang motionless at his sides.

"Come in, Jennison!" called coach.

Jennison came in.

"You mustn't work your arms like fly-wheels, nor like piston rods, either," explained Mr. Luce. "Keep your elbows in fairly close to your sides; fists loosely closed and forward, a little higher than your elbows. Now, all runners come in."

Gathering the squad about him, and demanding close attention, Mr. Luce showed the pose of the body at the instant of starting.

"Now, I'm going to run to first and second," continued the coach. "I want every man of you to watch closely and catch the idea. You note how I hold my body—sloping slightly forward, yet with every effort to avoid cramping the chest. Observe how I run on the forward part of the ball of the foot—not exactly on the toes, but close to it. See just how it is that I throw my feet up behind me. And be very particular to note that I keep my hands and arms in just this position all the way. Now, then, when you strike at a ball, and expect to hit it, have your lungs inflated ready for the first bound of the spurt. Now—watching, all of you?"

After an instant Mr. Luce shouted, "Strike!" and was off like a flash. Many of the boys present had never seen coach really sprint before. As they watched during the amazingly few seconds a yell of delight went up from them. This was sprinting!

"Did you all find time to observe?" smiled coach, as he came loping in from second base.

"We all watched you," laughed Dick. "But the time was short."

"You see the true principle of the sprint?"

"Yes; but it would take any of us years to get the sprint down that fine," protested Darrin.

"Don't be too sure of that," retorted coach. "Some of you will have doubled the style and steam of your sprint by the time you're running in the first game. Now, don't forget a word of what I've said about the importance of true sprinting. I've seen many a nine whose members had a fine battery, and all the fielders good men; yet, when they went to the bat and hit the leather, their sprinting was so poor that they lost game after game. From now on, the sprint's the thing! Yet don't overdo it by doing it all the time. Take plenty of rest and deep breathing between sprints. Usually, a two-bag sprint is all you need. Now, some more of you get out and try it."

Rapidly coach called off the names of those he wanted to try out. Some of these young men did better than the starters, for they had learned from the criticisms, and from the showing of Luce's standard form.

Presently the young men were standing about in various parts of the field, for none came in until called.

"Ripley," said Mr. Luce, turning to that young man, "you have the build and the lines of a good sprinter."

"Thank you, sir," nodded Fred.

"And yet your performance falls off. Your lung capacity ought to be all right from your appearance. What is the trouble? Honestly, have you been smoking any cigarettes?"

"Not one," Fred declared promptly.

Mr. Luce lifted the boy's right hand, scanning it.

"If I were going to make such a denial," remarked coach coolly, "I'd be sure to have a piece of pumice stone, and I'd use it often to take away those yellowish stains."

The light-brownish stains were faint on Fred's first and second fingers. Yet, under careful scrutiny, they could be made out.

Ripley colored uncomfortably, jerking his hand away.

"Better cut out the paper pests," advised coach quietly.

"Only one, once in a while," murmured the boy. "I won't have even that many after this."

"I should hope not," replied Mr. Luce. "You're under training pledge, you know."

All Fred meant by his promise was that he would use pumice stone painstakingly on his finger tips hereafter.

Within the next few days, Dick and Darrin made about the best showing as to sprinting form, though many of the others did remarkably well.

"Ripley isn't cutting out the cigarettes," decided Mr. Luce, watching the running of the lawyer's son. "He proves it by his lack of improvement. His respiration is all to the bad."

Mr. Luce was shrewd enough to know that, in Fred Ripley, he had a liar to deal with, and that neither repeated warnings nor renewed promises were worth much. So he held his peace.

In a few days more, all the members of the Athletics Committee who could attend went to the field. A practice match between the first and second teams had been ordered. Ripley consented to pitch for second, while Dick pitched for the school nine. The latter nine won by a score of eleven to two, but that had been expected. It was for another purpose that the members of the Athletics Committee were present.

After the game, there was a brief conference between coach and the committee members.

"It is time, now, to announce the appointment of captain," called coach, when he had again gathered the squad. "Purcell, of the junior class, will be captain of the nine. Prescott, of the sophomore class, will be second, or relief captain."

Then the announcements were made for the second nine.

And now the first game was close at hand. The opponent was to be Gardiner City High School. Gardiner possessed one of the strongest school nines in the state. Coach Luce would have preferred an easier opponent for the first regular game, but had to take the only match that he could get.

"However, young gentlemen," he announced to the squad on the field, "the Gridley idea is that all opponents look alike to us. Your city and your school will demand that you win—not merely that you try to win!"

"We'll win—no other way to do!" came the hearty promise.

XV. A DASTARD'S WORK IN THE DARK

Thanks to the methods Dick & Co. had started the year before of raising funds for High School athletics through stirring appeal to the local pride of the wealthy residents of the city, the school nine had an abundant supply of money for all needs.

Through the columns of "The Blade" Prescott warmed up local interest effectively. Tickets sold well ahead of the time for the meeting with Gardiner City High School.

"Prescott, you've been picked to pitch for the Gardiner game," Coach Luce informed the sophomore. "We're going to have almost the hardest rub of the season with this nine, on account of its being our first game. Gardiner City has played two games already, and her men have their diamond nerve with them. Keep yourself in shape, Mr. Prescott. Don't take any even slight chance of getting out of condition."

"You may be sure I won't," Dick replied, his eyes glowing. "You know, Mr. Luce, that, though I played some on second football team last fall, this is the first chance I've had to play on the regular team."

"As the game is close at hand," continued the coach, "I'd even be careful not to train too much. You're in as fine condition, now, as you can be this season. Sometimes, just in keeping up training, a fellow has something happen to him that lays him up for a few days."

"It won't happen to me, sir," Dick asserted. "I'm going to take care of myself as if I were glass, until the Gardiner game is over."

"You won't get too nervous, will you?"

"I may be a bit, before the game," Dick confessed, candidly.

"But after the game starts?"

"Once the game opens, I shall forget that there's any such fellow as Prescott, sir. I shall be just a part of Gridley, with nothing individual about me."

"Good! I like to hear you talk that way," laughed Mr. Luce. "I hope you'll be able to keep up to it when you go to the diamond. Once the game opens, don't let yourself have a single careless moment. Any single point we can get away from Gardiner will have to be done by just watching for it. You saw them play last year?"

"I did," Prescott nodded. "Gridley won, four to three, and until the last half of the last inning we had only one run. I thought nothing could save us that day."

"Nothing did," replied the coach, "except the hard and fast can't-lose tradition of Gridley."

"We're not going to lose this time, either," Dick declared. "I know that I'm going to strike out a string in every inning. If I go stale, you have Darrin to fall back on, and he's as baffling a pitcher as I can hope to be. And Ripley is a wonder."

"He would be," nodded Mr. Luce, sadly, "if he were a better base runner at the same time."

It seemed as though nothing else could be talked of in Gridley but the opening game. Just because it was the starter of the season the local military band, reinforced to thirty-five pieces, was to be on hand to give swing and life to the affair.

"Are you going, Laura?" Dick asked, when he met Miss Bentley.

"Am I going?" replied Laura, opening her eyes in amazement. "Why, Dick, do you think anything but pestilence or death could keep me away? Father is going to take Belle and myself. The seats are already bought."

Prescott's own parents were to attend. Out of his newspaper money he had bought them grand stand seats, and some one else had been engaged to attend in the store while the game was on.

"You'll have a great chance, Dick, old fellow, against a nine like Gardiner," said Dave Darrin. "And, do you know, I'm glad it's up to you to pitch? I'm afraid I'd be too rattled to pitch against a nine like Gardiner in the very first game of the season. All I have to do is to keep at the side and watch you."

"See here, Dave Darrin," expostulated his chum, "you keep yourself in the best trim, and make up your mind that you may have to be called before the game is over. What if my wrist goes lame during the game?"

"Pooh! I don't believe it will, or can," Dave retorted. "You're in much too fine shape for that, Dick."

"Other pitchers have often had to be retired before a game ended," Prescott rejoined, gravely. "And I don't believe that I am the greatest or the most enduring ever. Keep yourself up, Dave! Be ready for the call at any second."

"Oh, I will, but it will be needless," Dave answered.

Dalzell and Holmes were other members of the school nine squad who had been picked for this first game. Purcell was to catch, making perhaps, the strongest battery pair that Gridley High School had ever put in the field. Half of Dick & Co. were to make up a third of the nine in its first battle.

"I'm getting a bit scared," muttered Dan, the Friday afternoon before the Saturday game.

"Now, cut all that out," Dick advised. "If you don't I'll report you to the coach and captain."

This was said with a grin, and Dick went on earnestly:

"Dan, the scared soldier is always a mighty big drag in any battle. It takes two or three other good soldiers to look after him and hold him to duty."

"I'll admit, for myself, that I wish the druggist knew of some sort of pill that would give me more confidence for this confounded old first game," muttered Greg Holmes.

"I can tell you how to get the pill put up," Prescott hinted.

"I wish you would, then." But Greg spoke dubiously.

"Tell the druggist to use tragacanth paste to hold the pill together."

"Yes?——" followed Greg.

"And tell the druggist to mix into each pill a pound of good old Yankee ginger," wound up Prescott. "Take four, an hour apart before the game to-morrow."

"Then I'd never play left field," grinned Greg.

"Yes, you would. You'd forget your nervousness. Try it, Greg."

The three were walking up Main Street, when they encountered Laura Bentley and Belle Meade.

"What are you going to do to-morrow?" asked Laura, looking at the trio, keenly. "Are you going to win for the glory and honor of good old Gridley?"

"Dick is," smiled Greg. "Dan and I are going to sit at the side and use foot-warmers."

"You two aren't losing heart, are you?" asked Belle, looking at Dick Prescott's companions with some scorn.

"N-n-not if you girls are all going to take things as seriously as that," protested Greg.

"Every Gridley High School girl expects the nine to win to-morrow," spoke Laura almost sternly.

"Then we're going to win," affirmed Dan Dalzell. "On second thought, I'll sell my footwarmers at half the cost price."

"That's the way to talk," laughed Belle. "Now, remember, boys—though Dick doesn't need to have his backbone stiffened—if you boys haven't pride enough in Gridley to carry you through anything, the Gridley High School girls are heart and soul in the game. If you lose the game to-morrow don't any of you ever show up again at a class dance!"

The girls went away laughing, yet they meant what they said. Gridley girls were baseball fans and football rooters of the most intense sort.

Dave wanted to be abed by half past eight that evening, as Coach Luce had requested; but about a quarter past eight, just as he was about to retire, his mother discovered that she needed coffee for the next morning's breakfast, so she sent him to the grocer's on the errand. Dick, while eating supper, thought of an item that he wanted to print in the next day's "Blade." Accordingly, he hurried to the newspaper office as soon as the meal was over. It was ten minutes past eight when Dick handed in his copy to the night editor.

"Time enough," muttered the boy, as he reached the street. "A brisk jog homeward is just the thing before pulling off clothes and dropping in between the sheets."

As Dick jogged along he remembered having noticed, on the way to the office, Tip Scammon in a new suit of clothes.

"Tip's stock is coming up in the world," thought young Prescott. "But I wonder whether Tip earned that suit or stole it, or whether he has just succeeded in threatening more money out of Ripley. How foolish Fred is to stand for blackmail! I wonder if I ought to speak to him about it, or give his father a hint. I hate to be meddlesome. And, by ginger! Now I think of it, Tip looked rather curiously at me. He—oh!—murder!"

The last exclamation was wrung from Dick Prescott by a most amazing happening.

He was passing a building in the course of erection. It stood flush with the sidewalk, and the contractor had laid down a board walk over the sidewalk, and had covered it with a roofed staging.

Just as Dick passed under this, still on a lope, a long pole was thrust quickly out from the blackness inside the building. Between Dick's moving legs went the pole.

Bump! Down came Dick, on both hands and one knee. Then he rolled over sideways.

Away back in the building the young pitcher heard fast-moving feet.

In a flash Dick tried to get up. It took him more time than he had expected. He clutched at one of the upright beams for support.

Half a dozen people had seen the fall. Stopping curiously, they soon turned, hurrying toward Prescott.

Forgotten, in an instant, was the youngster's pain. His face went white with another throbbing realization.

"The game to-morrow! This knee puts me out!"

XVI. THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT

"Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!"

Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The consciousness of pain was again asserting itself.

"What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach him.

"Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay near him. "See that thing?"

"Yes. Trip over it?"

"I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running past here."

"Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to do that?"

"Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps," flashed Dick, with sudden divination.

"What's this?" demanded a boy, breaking in through the small crowd that was collecting. "Dick—you hurt?"

It didn't take Dave many seconds to understand the situation.

"I'll bet I know who did it!" he muttered, vengefully.

"Who?" spoke up one of the men.

But Dick gave a warning nudge. "Oh, well!" muttered Dave Darrin. "We'll settle this thing all in our own good time."

"Let me have your arm, Dave," begged young Prescott. "I want to see how well I can walk."

The young pitcher had already been experimenting, cautiously, to see how much weight he could bear on his injured left leg.

"Take my arm on the other side," volunteered a sympathetic man in the crowd.

Dick was about to do so, when the lights of an auto showed as the machine came close to the curb.

"Here's a doctor," called some one.

"Which one?" asked Dick.

"Bentley."

"Good!" muttered Dave. "Dr. Bentley is medical examiner to the High School athletic teams. Ask Dr. Bentley if he won't come in here. Stand still, Dick, and put all the weight you can on your sound leg."

Prescott was already doing this.

Dr. Bentley, a strong looking man of about fifty, rather short though broad-shouldered, took a quick survey of the situation.

"One of you men help me put Prescott in the tonneau of my car," he directed, "and come along with me to Prescott's home. The lad must not step on that leg until it has been looked at."

Dick found himself being lifted and placed in a comfortable seat in the after part of the auto. Dave and the man who had helped the physician got in with him.

Barely a minute later Dr. Bentley stopped his car before the Prescott book store.

"You stay in the car a minute," directed the physician. "I want to speak to your mother, so she won't be scared to death."

Mrs. Prescott, from whom Dick had inherited much of his own pluck, was not the kind of woman to faint. She quickly followed Dr. Bentley from the store.

"I'm hurt only in my feelings, mother," said Dick cheerfully. "I'm afraid I have a little wrench that will keep me out of the game tomorrow."

"That's almost a tragedy, I know," replied Mrs. Prescott bravely.

The physician directing, the boy was lifted from the car, while Mrs. Prescott went ahead to open the door.

Dave Darrin followed, his eyes flashing. Dave had his own theory to account for this state of affairs.

Into his own room Dick was carried, and laid on the bed. Mrs. Prescott remained outside while Dave helped undress his chum.

"Now, let us see just how bad this is," mused the physician aloud.

"It isn't so very bad," smiled Dick. "I wouldn't mind at all, if it weren't for the game to-morrow. I'll play, anyway."

"Huh!" muttered Dave, incredulously.

Dr. Bentley was running his fingers over the left knee, which looked rather red.

"Does this hurt? Does this? Or this" inquired the medical man, pressing on different parts of the knee.

"No," Dick answered, in each case.

"We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth."

"Why, no; it doesn't hurt," Dick insisted. "I believe I could rub that knee a little, and then walk on it."

"I hope that's right," Dave muttered, half incredulously.

Dr. Bentley made some further examination before he stated:

"I knew there was nothing broken there, but I feared that the ligaments of the knee had been strained. That might have put you out of the game for the season, Prescott."

"I'll be able to sprint in the morning," declared the young pitcher, with spirit.

"You fell on your hands, as well, didn't you?" asked the physician.

"Yes, sir."

"That saved you from worse trouble, then. The ligaments are not torn at all. The worst you've met with, Prescott, is a wrench of the knee, and there's a little swelling. It hurt to stand on your foot when you first tried to do so, didn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"It would probably hurt a little less, now. No—don't try it," as Dick started to bolster himself up. "You want that knee in shape at the earliest moment, don't you?"

"Of course I do, doctor."

"Then lie very quiet, and do, in everything, just what you are told."

"I've got to pitch to-morrow afternoon, you know, doctor. And I've got to run bases."

Dr. Bentley pursed his lips.

"There's a chance in a thousand that you'll be able, Prescott. The slight swelling is the worst thing we have to deal with, I'm glad to say. We'll have to keep the leg pretty quiet, and put cold compresses on frequently."

"I'll stay here and do it," volunteered Dave, promptly.

"You have to pitch to-morrow, Dave, if anything should make the coach order me off the field," interposed Dick, anxiously. "And you ought to be home and in bed now."

"If Mrs. Prescott will put on the bandages up to one o'clock to-night that will be doing well enough," suggested Dr. Bentley. "I shall be in to look at the young man quite early in the morning. But don't attempt to get up for anything, do you understand, Prescott? You know—" here Dr. Bentley assumed an air of authority—" I'm more than the mere physician. I'm medical director to your nine. So you're in duty bound to follow my orders to the letter."

"I will—if you'll promise me that I can pitch," promised the boy fervently.

"I can't promise, but I'll do my best."

"And, Dave," pressed Dick, "you'll skip home, now, and get a big night's rest, won't you? There's a bare chance that you might have to throw the ball to-morrow. But I won't let you, if I can stop it," Prescott added wistfully.

So Dave departed, for he was accustomed to following the wishes of the head of Dick & Co. in such matters.

Mrs. Prescott had come in as soon as the lad had been placed between the sheets. Dr. Bentley gave some further directions, then left something that would quiet the pain without having the effect of an opiate.

"It all depends on keeping the leg quiet and keeping the cold compresses renewed," were the medical man's parting words.

Twenty minutes later Dave telephoned the store below. Darrin was in a state of great excitement.

"Tell Dick, when he's awake in the morning," begged Dave of Mr. Prescott, who answered the call, "that Gridley pitchers seem to be in danger to-night. At least, two of 'em are. I was right near home, and running a bit, when I passed the head of the alley near our house. A bag of sand was thrown out right in front of my feet. How I did it I don't quite know yet, but I jumped over that bag, and came down on my feet beyond it. It was a fearfully close call, though. No; I guess you hadn't better tell Dick to-night. But you can tell him in the morning."

Though "The Blade" somehow missed the matter, there were a good many in Gridley who had heard the news by Saturday morning. It traveled especially among the High School boys. More than a dozen of them were at the book store as soon as that place was opened.

"How's Dick?" asked all the callers.

"Doing finely," replied the elder Prescott, cheerily.

"Great! Is he going to pitch this afternoon?"

"Um—I can't say about that."

"If he can't, Mr. Prescott, that'll be one of Gridley's chances gone over the fence."

Dave was on hand as early as he could be. Dick had already been told of the attempt on his chum the night before.

"You didn't see the fellow well enough to make out who he was?" Prescott pressed eagerly.

"No," admitted Dave, sadly. "After a few seconds I got over my bewilderment enough to try to give chase. But the dastard had sneaked away, cat-foot. I know who it was, though, even if I didn't see him."

"Tip Scammon?"

"Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work, isn't he?"

"I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business," muttered Dick, flushing.

"Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't warrant the suspicion."

Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation, and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching.

"Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?"

"Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley.

"But how about the big problem—can he pitch to-day?"

"That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now, see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like, but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there."

"And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too."

"Got hurt, you mean?" asked Dick quickly.

"Not quite," went on Darrin, making a face. "When Fred was going into the house last night he tripped slightly—against a rope that had been stretched across the garden path between two stakes."

"But Fred wasn't hurt?"

"No; he says he tripped, but he recovered himself."

"I'm afraid you don't believe that, Dave?"

"I ought to, anyway," retorted Darrin dryly. "Fred is showing the rope."

"A piece of rope is easy enough to get," mused Dick.

"Yep; and a lie is easy enough for some fellows to tell. But some of the fellows are inclined to believe Rip, so they've started a yarn that Gardiner High School is up to tricks, and that some fellows have been sent over in advance to cripple our box men for to-day."

"That's vile!" flushed Prescott indignantly, as he got up to make the circuit of the room. "The Gardiner fellows have always been good, fair sportsmen. They wouldn't be back of any tricks of that sort."

"Well, Fred has managed to cover himself, anyway," returned Dave rather disgustedly. "He called his father and mother out to see the rope before he cut it away from the stakes. Oh, I guess a good many fellows will believe Ripley's yarn!"

"I'm afraid you don't, Dave;"

"Oh, yes; I'm easy," grinned Darrin.

"Can you see two young ladies, Richard?" asked Mrs. Prescott, looking into the room.

"Certainly, mother, if I get a chance. My vision is not impaired in the least," laughed Dick.

Mrs. Prescott stood aside to admit Laura and Belle, then followed them into the room.

"We came to make sure that Gridley is not to lose its great pitcher to-day," announced Laura.

"Then your father must have told you that I'd do," cried Dick, eagerly.

"Father?" pouted Miss Bentley. "You don't know him then. One can never get a word out of father about any of his patients. But he said we might call."

The visit of the girls brightened up twenty minutes of the morning.

"Of course," said Laura, as they rose to go, "you mustn't attempt to pitch if you really can't do it, or if it would hurt you for future games."

"I'm afraid the coach won't let me pitch, unless your father says I can," murmured Dick, with a wry face.

Few in Gridley who knew the state of affairs had any idea that Dick Prescott would be able to stand in the box against Gardiner. But the young pitcher boarded a trolley car, accompanied by Dave Darrin, and both reached the Athletic Field before two o'clock. Dr. Bentley was there soon after. In the Gridley dressing room, Dick's left leg was bared, while Coach Luce drew off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Under the physician's direction the coach administered a very thorough massage, following this with an alcohol rubbing.

When it was all over Dick rose to exhibit the motions of that leg before the eyes of the doubtful physician.

XVII. WHEN THE HOME FANS QUIVERED

"Is Prescott going to toss!"

"They say not."

"It's a shame."

"And there's a suspicion," whispered one of the High School speakers, "that the other name of the shame is Fred Ripley."

"He ought to be lynched!"

"But he claims that an attempt was made against him, also."

"Ripley never was strong on the truth."

Though the gossip about Fred Ripley was not general, the anxiety over Pitcher Prescott was heard on all sides.

"It'll be a sure hoodoo if Prescott can't pitch the season's first game," declared a man who seldom missed a High School game on the home diamond.

Before three o'clock the grand stand was comfortably filled. The cheaper seats beyond held about as many spectators as they were built to hold.

The attendance, that day, was nearly three thousand. Gardiner had sent a delegation of nearly one-tenth of this number.

Before three o'clock the band began to play. Whenever the musicians launched into a popular baseball ditty the crowd joined with the words.

"Prescott is going to pitch!"

"No, he isn't."

"The word has just been passed around. Besides, his name's down on the score card."

"The score cards were printed yesterday."

Finally, curiosity could stand it no longer. A committee left the grand stand to go toward the dressing rooms building. But a policeman waved them back.

"None but players and officials allowed in there," declared the officer.

"We want to find out whether Prescott is going to pitch," urged the spokesman.

"I heard something about that," admitted the policeman.

"What was it? Quick!"

"Let me see. Oh! Prescott wants to pitch; the coach is half willing, but the doctor ain't certain."

This was the best they could do, so the committee returned to their seats. But nothing was settled.

At three-twenty, just as the band ceased playing, the compact bunch of Gardiner fans sent up the yell:

"Here they come! Our fellows! The only ones!"

Using their privilege as visiting team, the Gardiner players were now filing on to the field for a little warming-up practice.

"Throw him down, McCluskey!" tooted the band, derisively. But the cheers from the wild Gardiner fans nearly drowned out the instrumental racket. Quickly the visitors had a practice ball in motion. Now the home fans waited breathlessly.

At last the band played again. "See the Conquering Hero Comes!"

Gridley High School, natty and clean looking in their gray and black uniforms, with black stockings, caps and belts, came out on the field. Instantly there was craning of necks to see if Prescott were among the players.

"There he is!" yelled one of the High School fans. "There's our Dick! Wow!"

Cheering went up from every Gridley seat. The bleachers contributed a bedlam of noise. "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" blared forth the band. Girls and women stood up, waving fans, handkerchiefs, banners. Another round of cheering started. Dick walked quietly, looking neither to right nor left. Yet the boy was wondering, in astonishment, if kings usually got such a welcome.

By the time the cheering had ceased, Fred Ripley, also in uniform, strolled out and walked toward the sub bench.

A hiss greeted Ripley. It was not loud, nor insistent, and presently died out. But Fred went as white as a sheet, then, with eyes cast downward, he dropped to his seat at the end of the sub bench. His chest heaved, for the greeting had unnerved him.

"I wonder why I usually get that sort of thing, while that fellow Prescott has a band to play him in," muttered Fred.

The bulk of the audience was now quiet, while the three hundred visiting fans roared out one of their school yells.

Then followed a noisy whooping of the Gridley High School yell.

Coach Luce had walked over to a post behind the sub bench.

Umpire Foley, his mask dangling from his left hand, now summoned Purcell and the Gardiner captain. A coin spun up in the air. Gardiner's diamond chieftain won the toss, and chose first chance at the bat. Purcell's men scattered to their fielding posts, while the young captain of the home team fastened on his catcher's mask.

The umpire took a ball from its package, inspected it, then tossed it to Dick Prescott, who stood in the box awaiting it. There was a moment's tense expectation, followed by the command that set all the real fans wild:

"Play ball!"

Gardiner High School had put up a husky young giant who stood beside the plate, a confident grin on his face as he swung the bat.

Dick moistened his fingers. The batsman saw that, and guessed what was coming. He didn't guess quite low enough, however, for, though he stooped and swung the stick lower, the ball went under it by three inches.

"Strike one!" called Mr. Foley, judicially.

An imperceptible signal told Purcell what was coming next. Then it came—a jump ball. This time Gardiner's batsman aimed low enough but it proved to be a jump ball.

"Strike two!"

A howl of glee went up from all quarters, save from the Gardiner visitors.

Again Dick signaled. His third was altogether different—a bewildering out-curve. Gardiner's batsman didn't offer, but Purcell caught the leather neatly.

"Strike three, and out! One out!" announced the umpire.

"Whoop!" The joy from the home fans was let loose. With a disgusted look, Gardiner's man slouched back to the players' bench.

XVIII. THE GRIT OF THE GRAND OLD GAME

In that half of the inning it was one, two, three—down and out!

Even Fred Ripley found himself gasping with admiration of Prescott's wonderfully true pitching.

Yet the joy of the home fans was somewhat curbed when Gridley went to bat and her third man struck out after two of the nine had reached bases.

So the first inning closed without score. Gardiner had found that Gridley was "good," and the latter realized that even young Prescott's pitching could not do it all.

The first five innings went off quickly, neither side scoring.

"It'll be a tie at dark," sighed some of the fans.

"Oh, well, a tie doesn't score against Gridley," others added, consolingly.

In the five innings Dick Prescott had to run twice. The first time he was left at first base. The second time he had reached second, and was cautiously stealing third, when Gridley's batsman, Captain Purcell, struck his side out on a foul hit.

"How's your wrist holding up?" asked Purcell, in a low tone, as Dick came in.

"It feels strong.

"Do you think Darrin had better have the rest of the game?"

"Not on account of my wrist."

"But can you run the bases to the end?"

"If it doesn't call for any more running than we've had," smiled Dick.

Then he caught the ball, held it an instant, signaled, and let drive. It was the same Gardiner batsman whom Prescott had struck out at the opening of the game. This time the young giant got the range of the ball by sheer good guessing.

Crack! It soared. Right field ran backward after the ball. Now the Gardiner fans were up and yelling like Comanches.

"Leg it, Prendergast!"

The runner touched first bag, then darted on for second. Right field was still after the ball.

"Whoop! He's pulverized the second bag!"

"Just look at third, old man, and come steaming home over the plate!"

That runner had been well trained. He was close upon third base and going with unabated speed.

He kicked the bag—then a warning cry told him that right field had the ball.

A swift look over his shoulder, and Prendergast fell back upon third just before the ball dropped into the third baseman's hands.

"Safe on third!" came the umpire's announcement. The ball arched over to Dick Prescott. Purcell signaled him to let the ball come in over the plate.

Now the air was all a-tingle. The visitors had a run in sight. Dick felt the thrill, but steeled himself against any impulsiveness or loss of nerve. He signaled the drive, then let go. Three strikes and out, the ball all the while so closely under control that Prendergast fidgeted but did not dare steal far from third.

Then came Dowdy to the bat. He was far and away the best batsman from Gardiner. Prendergast began to edge in.

"Strike one!" from the umpire.

Crack! The leather hung low, a little to the left of shortstop, who raced after it. Prendergast was going in at a tremendous clip. As shortstop reached the ball, he swooped down on it, stopped its rolling, and rising quickly, hurled it in across the plate.

Purcell was waiting, and made a good catch. It looked close. Everyone eyed Umpire Foley.

"Runner safe home," he decided.

There was a gasp of disappointment, but the decision was fair. Prendergast had made good by a fraction of a second—and there was a man on first.

"Oh, Dick! Oh, Prescott!" wailed the home fans. "We look to you."

Dick's answer was to strike the next man out, with never a chance for the man on first to steal away from Dalzell and make second. Then a short fly filled first and second. Dick struck out a second man—then a third.

But this was getting on Gridley's nerves. Despite Prescott's fine pitching, it began to look as though Gardiner High School was fitted for getting the only one or two runs that the game would witness.

In the eighth, Gardiner got a second run, but that inning closed with Gridley as much "stumped" as ever.

"Why play the ninth?" yelled one of the visitor fans. "Let's go and drink tea. Gridley boys are nice little fellows, but——"

"How's that wrist?" asked Captain Purcell, anxiously, as the players changed places to begin the ninth. Coach Luce had stepped close, too, and looked anxious.

"Just a bit lame, of course," Dick admitted. "But I'm going to pull through."

"You're sure about it?" Purcell asked.

"Sure enough!"

The first Gardiner man to bat went out on the third ball sent past him. Then a second. Now came Prendergast to the bat, blood in his eye. He glared grimly at young Prescott, as though to say:

"Now, I'll take it out of you for making a comedian of me the first time I held the stick!"

Dick felt, somehow, that Prendergast would make good.

The first ball that Prescott put over the plate was a called strike. At the second serve—

Crack! and Prendergast was running.

Dan Dalzell gauged the flight of that ball better than anyone else on the diamond. He side-stepped like a flash, falling back a couple of paces. Then pulling the leather down out of the air, he leaped back to first. He was holding the ball in his left hand when Prendergast, breathing fast, hopped at the bag.

"Runner out!" called Umpire Foley. Prendergast stamped back, with a look of huge disgust. And now Gridley came in at the bat.

"It's no use! We're whipped!" That was the comment everywhere as Gridley came in from the field prepared for a last effort.

Gridley's first and second men went bad—the first struck out, and the second knocked a foul bit that was caught.

"Greg, you've got to go to bat next," whispered Dick to Holmes, just a moment before. "Oh, don't you strike out. Hit something drive it somewhere. Remember Gridley can't and won't lose! Get the Gridley spirit soaked into you instanter. Chase that leather somewhere!"

Gardiner's pitcher, his face beaming, faced Holmes, whom he did not regard as one of the team's heavyweights in batting skill. Visiting fans were rising, preparing to leave the stand.

"Strike one!"

"There he goes!"

"Strike two!"

"It's all over."

Crack! Greg was off like a colt. Running was in his line. He had swatted the ball somewhere over into left field, and he didn't care where it landed. Gardiner's left field was forced to pick up the leather.

Greg didn't know that anyone had the ball. He didn't care; he had to make first, anyway.

He kicked the bag, turning for the second lap. Then he saw the sphere coming through the air, and slid back.

"Runner safe on first!"

Gridley, with its nerve always on hand, felt that there was a ray of hope. The good, old, strong and fierce school yell went up. The soprano voices of the girls sounded high on the air.

Now Dan Dalzell came up to the plate, bat in hand. Dan hadn't hit a thing during the afternoon, but he meant to do so, now. It was either that or the swan-song!

"Strike one!—" a groan came from Gridley, a cheer from Gardiner.

But Dan was not in the least confused. He was ready for the next ball.

Biff! It was the pistol shot for Greg, who was off like a two-legged streak, with Dan, ninety feet behind but striving to catch up. The ball came to first only a quarter-second behind Dan's arrival.

"Both runners safe!"

"Oh, now, Purcell!"

The man now hovering over the plate knew he simply had to do something. He was captain of the nine. He had caught like a Pinkerton detective all afternoon, but now something was demanded of his brain and brawn.

"Strike one!" called the umpire, with voice that grated.

"Good-bye!"

"Strike two!" came again the umpire's rasping tones.

Even now Gridley fans wouldn't admit cold feet, but the chills were starting that way.

Crack!

"Whoop!" Then the battle-cry of Gridley rose frantically from all the seats—Purcell had made first base.

"Prescott!"

"It's yours!"

"Don't fall down!"

Schimmelpodt, a wealthy old German contractor, rose from his seat, shouting hoarsely:

"Bresgott I gif fifdy tollars by dot Athletic Committee bis you win der game vor Gridley!"

The offer brought a laugh and a cheer. Schimmelpodt rarely threw away money.

Dick, smiling confidently, stood bat in hand.

Most other boys might have felt nervous with so much depending on them. But Dick was one of the kind who would put off growing nervous until the need of steady nerves was past.

It was always impossible for him to admit defeat.

The game stood two to nothing in favor of the Gardiner nine, but Gridley had bases full.

Dick's help might not have been needed for all the uneasiness that he displayed.

There was no pallor about his face, nor any flush. His hands grasped the willow easily, confidently.

"Strike one!"

Prescott had missed the ball, but it failed to rattle him.

"Strike two!"

The boy was still undaunted, though he had lost two chances out of the three.

Again he tried for the ball.

Swish! It was a foul hit, out sidewise. Gardiner's catcher darted nimbly in under the ball.

Home fans groaned.

As for Dick, he didn't turn his head to look. Catcher had the ball in his fingers, but fumbled it. It slipped.

"Hard luck," muttered the standing Gardiner fans, waiting to give their final cheer of victory.

Dick's next sight of the ball was when it sailed lazily over his head, into the hands of the man in the box.

"I hope Dick is bracing," groaned one of Gridley's subs.

"He isn't," retorted Dave Darrin. "He's just on the job, steady as iron, cool as a cucumber and confident as an American."

Gardiner's pitcher measured his man critically, then signaled the next ball.

It came, just as Dick, closely watching the pitcher, expected it to come, a swift, graceful out-curve.

Bang!

At least it sounded like a gunshot. Dick Prescott struck the ball with all his might. He struck with greatest force just barely below the center of the sphere.

It was a fearful crack, aimed right and full of steam and speed.

"Wow!"

Three base-runners, at the first sound had started running for all they were worth. Dick's bat flew like a projectile itself, fortunately hitting no one, and Prescott was running like Greek of old on the Olympic field.

One man in!

The ball had gone past the furthest limits of outfield. Before it had touched the ground Dick Prescott touched first and started for second.

Gardiner right and left fields were running a race with center field.

The latter was the one to get it, but his two supporters simply couldn't stand still.

Prescott kicked the second bag. Almost at the same instant the second man was in.

Score tied!

What about that ball?

It was rolling on the ground, now, many yards ahead of the flying center-field.

Dick was nearing third, the man ahead of him fast nearing the home plate.

Centerfield had the ball in his hands, whirling as if on springs.

Third man safe home—Dick Prescott turning the third bag and into the last leg of the diamond.

Center-field threw with all his might, but the distance was long.

Second base had to stoop for the ball. Even at that, it got past his hands. He wheeled, bolted after the ball, got it and made a throw to the catcher.

Out of the corner of his eyes, young Prescott saw the arching ball descend, a good throw and a true one.

Yet, ere it landed in the catcher's hand, Dick, by the fraction of a second, had sprinted desperately across the home plate.

"Runner safe home!"

"Whoo-oopee! Wow! wow! wow!" rang the chorus of thousands.

"Four to two!"

"What about Gridley, now?"

"What about Dick Prescott?"

Then words were lost in volleys of cheers. The Gardiner fans who had risen to cheer slipped dejectedly down from the stand.

And Dick Prescott?

While running he had given no thought to his knee.

Now, as he dashed across the plate, and heard the umpire's decision, he tried to stop, but slipped and went down. He tried to rise, but found it would be better to sit where he was.

The game was over. Gridley, having made the winning runs in the last half of the ninth, the rules of the game forbade any further attempts to pile up score.

One of the first of the great crowd to leap over into the field and cross the diamond was Coach Luce. He ran straight to the young pitcher's side, kneeling close by him.

"You've given your knee a fearful twist, Prescott. I could see it," said Luce sympathetically.

"What do I care?" Dick called back, his face beaming. "The score's safe, isn't it?"

Had it not been for the state of his knee Prescott would have been snatched up by a dozen hands and rushed across the field in triumph. But Mr. Luce waved them all back. Dick's father and mother came hurrying across the field to see what was wrong with their boy.

"Let me lean on you as I get up, Mr. Luce," begged Dick, and the coach was only too quick to help the boy to his feet. Then, with the aid of Luce's arm, Dick was able to show his parents that he could walk without too much of a limp.

"You did it for us, Dick, old boy!" greeted Captain Purcell, as soon as he could get close.

"Did I?" snorted the young pitcher. "I thought there were four of us in it, with five others helping a bit."

"It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in," glowed Purcell. "Gracious, I don't believe that Gardiner pitcher was ever stung as badly as that before!"

The band was playing, now. As the strain stopped, and the young pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin's arm, the music crashed out again into "Hail to the Chief!"

"You see, Purcell. You're getting your share of the credit now," laughed Dick. "The band is playing something about a captain, isn't it?"

In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help. Fred Ripley was the only silent one in the group. He changed his togs for street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared. Later, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and saw him safely home. That knee required further treatment by Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on the result.

"Fred, I can't say much for your appetite tonight," remarked his father at the evening meal.

"Neither can I, sir," Fred answered.

"Are you out of sorts?"

"Never felt any better, sir."

"Being out in the open air all this April afternoon should have given you an appetite.

"I didn't do anything this afternoon, except sit around in my ball togs," Fred grumbled.

"I hope you'll have a few good games to pitch this season," his father went on. "You worked hard enough, and I spent money enough on the effort to prepare you."

"You can't beat some people's luck—unless you do it with a club," grumbled Fred, absently.

"Eh?" asked his father, looking up sharply from his plate. But the boy did not explain.

Late that night, however, breaking training rules for the tenth time, Fred was out on the sly to meet Tip Scammon. The pair of them laid plans that aimed to stop Dick Prescott's career as High School pitcher.

XIX. SOME MEAN TRICKS LEFT OVER

Mr. Schimmelpodt had offered that fifty dollars in a moment of undue excitement.

For two or three days afterward he wondered if he couldn't find some way out of "spending" the money that would yet let him keep his self-respect.

Finding, at last, that he could not, he wrote out the check and mailed it. He pinned the check to a half-sheet of paper on which he wrote, "Rah mit Prescott!"

A few days later Mr. Schimmelpodt turned from Main Street into the side street on which Dick's parents kept their store and their home.

"Ach! Und dere is de door vot that boy lives by," thought Mr. Schimmelpodt, just before he passed Dick's door. "Yen der game over was, und I saw dot boy go down—ach!"

For Mr. Schimmelpodt had suited the action to the word. Out from under him his feet shot. But Mr. Schimmelpodt, being short and flabby of leg, with a bulky body above, came down as slowly as big bodies are supposed to move. It was rather a gradual tumble. Having so much fat on all portions of his body Mr. Schimmelpodt came down with more astonishment than jar.

"Ach! Such a slipperyishness!" he grunted. "Hey, Bresgott—! look out!"

The door had opened suddenly at this early hour in the morning. Dick, charged with doing a breakfast errand for his mother at the last moment, sprang down the steps and started to sprint away.

At the first step on the sidewalk, however, Dick's landing foot shot out from under him.

He tried to bring the other down in time to save himself. That, too, slipped. Dick waved his arms, wind-mill fashion in the quick effort to save himself.

"Bresgott," observed the seated contractor, solemnly, "I bet you five tollars to den cents dot you——"

Here Schimmelpodt waited until Dick settled the question of the center of gravity by sprawling on the sidewalk.

"—Dot you fall," finished the German, gravely. "I—Und I yin!"

"Why, good morning, Mr. Schimmelpodt," Dick responded, as he started to get up. "What are you doing here."

"Oh, choost vaiting to see bis you do the same thing," grunted the contractor. "It was great sport—not?"

"Decidedly 'not,'" laughed Dick, stepping gingerly over a sidewalk that had been spread thinly with some sticky substance. "Can I help you up, Mr. Schimmelpodt?"

The German, who knew his own weight, glanced at the boy's slight figure rather doubtfully.

"Bresgott, how many horsepower are you alretty?"

But Dick, standing carefully so that he would not slip again, displayed more strength than the contractor had expected. In another moment the German was on his feet, moving cautiously away, his eyes on the sidewalk. Yet he did not forget to mutter his thanks to the boy.

As Dick now went on his way again, slipping around the corner and into a bakeshop, he noticed that his right wrist felt a bit queer.

"Well, I haven't broken anything," he murmured, feeling of the wrist with his left hand. "But what on earth happened to the sidewalk."

As he paused before his door on the way back, he looked carefully down at the sidewalk. Right before the door several flags in the walk appeared to be thinly coated with some colorless specimen of slime.

"It looks as though it might be soft soap," pondered Prescott, examining the stuff more closely. "It'll be dry in a half an hour more, but I think I had better fix it."

In the basement was a barrel of sand that was used for sanding the icy sidewalk in winter. As soon as Dick had run upstairs with the bread he went below, got a few handfuls of sand and fixed the sidewalk.

At recess Dick noticed just enough about his wrist to make him speak about it to Submaster Luce.

"Let me see it," demanded coach. "Hm!" he muttered. "Another peculiar accident, and only two days before our game with Chichester! See Dr. Bentley about your wrist at his office this afternoon. I'm beginning to think, Prescott, that it's a fortunate thing for you that the medical director is paid out of the fund. You'd bankrupt an ordinary citizen if you're going to keep on having these tumbles."

Dr. Bentley's verdict was that, while the wrist was not in a condition that need bother men much in ordinary callings, yet, as a pitcher's wrist, it would need rest and care.

"I've just got the tip that I'm to pitch in the Chichester game," said Dave, coming to his chum that afternoon.

"Yes; Doe thinks I ought to look after this wrist—that it wouldn't stand extraordinary strain during the next few days. But, Dave, old fellow, watch out! Keep your eye on the sidewalks near your home. Don't prowl in lonely places after dark. Act as if you were made of glass until you get on the field at the Chichester game."

Darrin glanced shrewdly at his friend, then nodded.

"I'm on, Dick! Confound that fellow, Ripley. And he's as slick and slippery as an eel. I don't suppose there is any way that we can catch him?"

"If I knew a way I'd use it," growled Prescott. "I'm sick of having this thing so onesided all the time. Ripley plans, and we pay the piper. The blackguard!"

"Then you're sure Ripley is at the bottom of these accidents?"

"The accidents are planned," retorted Dick. "Who else would care to plan them, except that disagreeable fellow?"

"I'd like to get just proof enough to justify me in demanding that he stand up before me for twenty rounds," gritted Dave Darrin.

Dave did take extraordinary care of himself, and was on hand to pitch at the game with Chichester. This game, like the first, was on the home grounds.

It was a close game, won by Gridley, two to one. In some respects Chichester's fielding work was better than the home team's. It was undying grit that won the battle—that and Dave Darrin's pitching.

As the jubilant home fans left the ball grounds it was the general opinion that Dave Darrin was only the merest shade behind Dick Prescott as a pitcher.

"Either one of them in the box," said Coach Luce to a friend, "and the game is half won."

"But how about Ripley?"

"Ripley?" replied the coach. "He made a good showing in the tryouts, but we haven't had in the field yet. He will be, though, the next game. We play Brayton High School over at Brayton. It's one of the smaller games, and we're going to try Ripley there."

Then the coach added, to himself:

"Ripley is presentable enough, but I believe there's a big yellow streak in him somewhere. I wouldn't dare to put Fred into one of the big games requiring all the grit that Prescott or Darrin can show!"

XX. A TIN CAN FOR THE YELLOW DOG

With Ripley in the box Gridley won its third game of the season, beating Brayton High School by a score of five to two.

"It ought to have been a whitewash against a small-fry crowd like Brayton," Coach Luce confided to Captain Purcell.

"What was our weak spot, Coach?"

"Have you an opinion, Captain?" asked the coach.

"Yes, but I'm afraid I'm wrong."

"What is your idea?"

"Why, it seemed to me, Mr. Luce, that Ripley went stiff at just the wrong times. Yet I hate to say that, and I am afraid I'm unfair, for Rip surely does throw in some wonderful balls."

"You've struck my idea, anyway," responded Mr. Luce. "Please don't say anything about it to the other men. But, between ourselves, Captain, I think we'll do well to give Ripley few and unimportant chances this season. Most people can't see where real grit comes in, in baseball"

"Yet you think the lack of grit, or stamina, is just what ails Rip?" asked Captain Purcell keenly.

"You can judge, from what I've said," replied Coach Luce.

"I'm glad then, Coach, for it shows I wasn't so far off the track in my own private judgment."

Yet, to hear Fred Ripley tell about the game, it wasn't such a small affair. He judged his foemen by the fact that they had to contend with him.

"Five to two is the safest margin we've had yet," he confided to those who listened to him at the High School. "More than that, we had Brayton tied down so that, at no time in the game, did they have any show to break the score against us. Now, if Luce and Purcell fix it up for me to pitch the real games of the season"

"Oh, cut it out, Rip," advised one listener, good-naturedly. "Brayton is only a fishball team, anyway. Not a real, sturdy beef-eater in the lot."

The season moved on briskly now. Dick pitched two games, and Darrin one in between Prescott's pair. Dick's first game was won by a score of one to nothing; his second game, the return date against Gardiner, was a tie. The game in which Darrin pitched was won by a score of three to two.

Then came a game with a team not much above Brayton's standing.

"Prescott and Darrin must be saved for some of the bigger games," decided Coach Luce. "Purcell, don't you think it will be safe to trust Ripley to pitch against Cedarville High School?"

"Yes," nodded the captain of the nine. "I don't believe Cedarville could harm us, anyway, if we put left field or shortstop in the box."

Fred Ripley was notified. At once Cedarville became, in his talk, one of the most formidable nines on the state's High School circuit.

"But we'll skin 'em, you'll see," promised Fred, through the week. "Be at the game, and see what I can do when I'm feeling well. Cedarville has no chance."

Ripley was in high spirits all through the week. All through that Saturday forenoon he moved about in a trance of exultation. Yet, underneath it all, he was somewhat seedy in a physical sense, for he had been out late the night before to meet Tip and hand over some money.

Late that Saturday forenoon, Lawyer Ripley returned from a business trip. Soon after he returned home, and had seen a man in his library, he went in search of his wife.

"Where's Fred?" demanded the lawyer.

"He went out up the street, to get a good walk," replied Mrs. Ripley. "You know, my dear, he is to pitch for Gridley in one of the biggest games of the season this afternoon."

"Hm!" said the lawyer. "Well, see here. Let Fred have his luncheon. Don't say a word until then. As soon as he is over with the meal, send him to me in the library. Don't give him any hint until he has finished eating."

"Is—is anything wrong?" asked Mrs. Ripley, turning around quickly.

"Just a few little questions I want to talk over with the boy," replied Mr. Ripley.

It was shortly after one o'clock when Fred stepped into the library. This apartment was really in two rooms, separated by folding doors. In the front room Mr. Ripley had his desk, and did his writing. Most of his books were in the rear room. At the time when Fred entered the folding doors were closed.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Fred asked, as he entered.

"Yes," said his father, pointing to a chair; "take a seat."

"I hope it isn't anything that will take much time," hinted Fred. "you know, sir, I've got to be at the field early this afternoon. I am to pitch in one of the biggest——"

"I'll try to be very brief," replied the lawyer, quietly. "Fred, as you know, whenever I find I have more money about me than I care to carry, I put it in the private safe upstairs. Your mother and I have a place where we hide the key to that old-fashioned safe. But, do you know, I have been missing some money from that safe of late? Of course, it would be sheer impudence in me to suspect your mother."

"Of course it would," agreed Fred, with feigned heartiness. He was fighting inwardly to banish the pallor that he knew was creeping into his cheeks.

"Have you any theory, Fred, that would help to account for the missing of these sums of money?" pursued the lawyer, one hand toying with a pencil.

"Do you suspect any of the servants?" asked the boy, quickly.

"We have had all our servants in the family for years," replied the lawyer, "and it would seem hard to suspect any of them."

"Then whom can you suspect, sir?"

"Fred, do you know, I have had a quiet little idea. I am well acquainted with the scrapes that young fellows sometimes get into. My experience as a lawyer has brought me much in contact with such cases. Now, it is a peculiar thing that young fellows often get into very bad scrapes indeed in pursuing their peculiar ideals of manliness. Fred, have you been getting into any scrapes? Have you found out where your mother and I hide the key to the safe? Have you been helping yourself to the money on the sly?"

These last three questions Lawyer Ripley shot out with great suddenness, though without raising his voice.

The effect upon young Ripley was electrical. He sprang to his feet, his face dramatically expressive of a mingling of intense astonishment and hurt pride.

"Dad," he gasped, "how can you ask me such questions?"

"Because I want the answer, and a truthful one," replied the lawyer, coolly. "Will you oblige me with the answer? Take your time, and think deliberately. If you have made any mistakes I want you to be fair and honorable with me. Now, what do you say, sir?"

Fred's mind had been working like lightning. He had come to the conclusion that it would be safe to bluff his denial through to the end.

"Father," he uttered, earnestly, in a voice into which he tried to throw intense earnestness and sincerity, "I give you my word of honor, as a Ripley, that I know nothing more about the missing money than you have just told me."

"You are sure of that, Fred?"

"Sure of it, sir? Why, I will take any oath that will satisfy——"

"We don't want any perjury here," cut in the lawyer, crisply, and touched a bell.

The folding doors behind them flew open with a bang. As Fred started and whirled about he beheld a stranger advancing toward them, and that stranger was escorting—Tip Scammon.

The stranger halted with his jailbird companion some five or six feet away. The stranger did not appear greatly concerned. Tip, however, looked utterly abashed, and unable to raise his gaze from the floor.

"With this exhibit, young man," went on the lawyer, in a sorrowful tone, "I don't suppose it is necessary to go much further with the story. When I first began to miss small sums from the safe I thought I might merely have made a mistake about the sums that I had put away. Finally, I took to counting the money more carefully. Then I puzzled for a while. At last, I sent for this man, who is a detective. He has come and gone so quietly that probably you have not noticed him. This man has had a hiding place from which he could watch the safe. Early last evening you took the key and opened the safe—robbed it! You took four five-dollar bills, but they were marked. This man saw you meet Tip Scammon, saw you pass the money over, and heard a conversation that has filled me with amazement. So my son has been paying blackmail money for months!"

Fred stood staggered, for a few moments. Then he wheeled fiercely on Scammon.

"You scoundrel, you've been talking about me—telling lies about me," young Ripley uttered hoarsely.

"I hain't told nothing about ye," retorted Tip stolidly. "But this rich man's cop (detective) nabbed me the first thing this morning. He took me up inter yer father's office, an' asked me whether I'd let him explore my clothes, or whether I'd rather have a policeman called in. He 'splained that, if he had to call the poor man's cop, I'd have to be arrested for fair. So I let him go through my clothes. He found four five-spots on me, and told me I'd better wait an' see yer father. So I'm here, an' not particular a bit about having to go up to the penitentiary for another stretch."

"It hasn't been necessary, Fred, to question Scammon very far," broke in the elder Ripley. "That'll do, now, Haight. Since Scammon volunteered to give the money back, and said he didn't know it had been stolen, you can turn him loose."

The detective and Tip had no more than gone when Lawyer Ripley, his face flushed with shame, wheeled about on his son.

"So you see, Fred, what your word of honor the word of a Ripley—is sometimes worth. You have been robbing me steadily. How much you have taken I do not know as I have not always counted or recorded money that I put in the safe."

Fred's face had now taken on a defiant look. He saw that his father did not intend to be harsh, so the boy determined to brave it out.

"Haven't you anything to say?" asked the lawyer, after a brief silence.

"No," retorted Fred, sulkily. "Not after you've disgraced me by putting a private detective on my track. It was shameful."

That brought the hot blood rushing to his father's face.

"Shameful, was it, you young reprobate? Shameful to you, when you have been stealing for weeks, if not for months? It is you who are dead to the sense of shame. Your life, I fear, young man, cannot go on as it has been going. You are not fitted for a home of wealth and refinement. You have had too much money, too easy a time. I see that, now. Well, it shall all change! You shall have a different kind of home."

Fred began to quake. He knew that his father, when in a mood like this, was not to be trifled with.

"You—you don't mean jail?" gasped the boy with a yellow streak in him.

"No; I don't; at least, not this time," retorted his father. "But, let me see. You spoke of an engagement to do something this afternoon. What was it?"

"I was to have pitched in the game against Cedarville High School."

"Go on, then, and do it," replied his father.

"I—I can't pitch, now. My nerves are too——"

"Go on and do what you're pledged to do!" thundered Lawyer Ripley, in a tone which Fred knew was not to be disregarded. So the boy started for the door.

"And while you are gone," his father shot after him, "I will think out my plan for changing your life in such a way as to save whatever good may be in you, and to knock a lot of foolish, idle ideas out of your head!"

Fred's cheeks were ashen, his legs shaking under him as he left the house.

"I've never seen the guv'nor so worked up before—at least, not about me," thought the boy wretchedly. "Now, what does he mean to do? I can't turn him a hair's breadth, now, from whatever plan he may make. Why didn't I have more sense? Why didn't I own up, and 'throw myself on the mercy of the court'?"

In his present mood the frightened boy knew he couldn't sit still in a street car. So he walked all the way to the Athletic Field. He was still shaking, still worried and pale when at length he arrived there.

He walked into the dressing room. The rest of the nine and the subs were already on hand, many of them dressed.

"You're late, Mr. Ripley," said Coach Luce, a look of annoyance on his face.

Outside, the first of the fans on the seats were starting the rumpus that goes under the name of enthusiasm.

"I—I know it. But—but—I—I'm sorry, Mr. Luce. I—I believe I'm going to be ill. I—I know I can't pitch to-day."

So Coach Luce and Captain Purcell conferred briefly, and decided that Dave Darrin should pitch to-day.

Darrin did pitch. He handled his tricky curves so well that puny Cedarville was beaten by the contemptuous score of seventeen to nothing.

Meanwhile, Fred Ripley was wandering about Gridley, in a state of abject, hopeless cowardice.

XXI. DICK IS GENEROUS BECAUSE IT'S NATURAL

"Say, will you look at Rip?"

No wonder Harry Hazelton exploded with wonder as he turned to Dan Dalzell and Greg Holmes.

In this warmer weather, the young men loitered in the school yard until the first bell.

These three members of Dick & Co. were standing near the gateway when Fred Ripley turned the nearest corner and came on nervously, hurriedly, a hang-dog look in his face.

What had caught Harry Hazelton's eye, and now made his comrades stare, was the new suit that Fred wore. Gone was all that young man's former elegance of attire. His stern father had just left the boy, after having taken him to a clothing store where Fred was tricked out in a coarse, ready-made suit that had cost just seven dollars and a half. A more manly boy would have made a better appearance in such clothes, but it was past Fred Ripley. And he was miserably conscious of the cheap-looking derby that rested on his head. Even his shoes were new and coarse.

Ripley hurried by the chums, and across the yard, to be met at the door by Purcell, who stared at him in candid astonishment.

"Oh, say, Rip!" demanded Purcell. "What's the bet?"

"Shut up!" retorted Ripley, passing quickly inside.

"Fine manners," grinned Purcell to a girl who had also paused, impelled by excusable curiosity.

Dick, when he came along, heard the news from Hazelton and the others.

"What can be the cause of it all?" asked Tom Reade, wonderingly.

"Oh, some row with his father," decided Dick slowly. "When I was up on Main Street I saw them both going into Marsh's clothing store."

"I asked poor old Rip what the bet was," chuckled Purcell as he joined the group.

"Say, if you want to have fun at recess," proposed Dan Dalzell, "let's about twenty of us, one after the other, go up and ask Rip what the bet is, and how long it's for?"

"Say," retorted Dick sternly, eyeing hapless Dan, "I believe, if you got into a fight and knocked a fellow down, you'd jump on him and keep hammering him."

"Not much I wouldn't, old safety-valve," retorted Dan, reddening. "But I see that you're right, Dick. Rip has never been any friend of ours, and to jump him now, when he's evidently down at home, would be too mean for the principles of Dick & Co."

"I'd rather give the poor fellow a helping hand up, if we could," pursued young Prescott musingly, "Purcell, do you think there'd be any use in trying that sort of thing?"

"Why, I don't know," replied Captain Purcell, easy going and good hearted. "Barring a few snobbish airs, I always used to like Rip well enough. He was always pretty proud, but pride, in itself, is no bar to being a decent fellow. The only fellow who comes to harm with pride is the fellow who gets proud before he has done anything to be proud of. At least, that's the way it always hit me."

"Ripley certainly looked hang-dog," commented Hazelton.

"And he must feel mightily ashamed over something," continued Dick. "I wonder if his father has found out anything about Tip Scammon and certain happenings of last year. That might account for a lot. But what do you say, fellows? If Ripley has been a bit disagreeable and ugly, shall we try to make him feel that there's always a chance to turn around and be decent?"

"Why, I'd believe in trying to point out the better road to Old Nick himself," replied Dave Darrin warmly. "Only, I don't believe in doing it in the preachy way—like some people do."

"That's right," nodded Dick. "See here, Purcell, if Ripley is looking down in the mouth at recess, why don't you go up to him and talk baseball? Then call us over, after you've raised some point for discussion. And we'll tip two or three other fellows to join in, without, of course, getting a crowd."

"I'll try it," nodded Purcell. "Though I can't guess how it will turn out. Of course, if Rip gives us the black scowl we'll have to conclude that no help is wanted."

It was tried, however, at recess. Purcell went about it with the tact that often comes to the easy going and big hearted. Soon Purcell had Dick and Dave with Fred and himself. Then the other chums drifted up. Two or three other fellows came along. After some sulkiness at first Fred talked eagerly, if nervously. On the whole, he seemed grateful.

When Dick reached home that day he felt staggered with astonishment. Waiting for him was a note from Lawyer Ripley, asking the boy to be at the latter's office at half-past two.

"I shall take it as a very great favor," the note ran on, "and, from what I know of you, I feel certain that you will be glad to aid me in a matter that is of vast importance to me."

"What on earth is coming?" wondered Dick. But he made up his mind to comply with the request.

Promptly to the minute Dick reached the street door of the office building. Here he encountered Dave Darrin and Dalzell.

"You, too?" asked Dick.

"It looks as though all of Dick & Co. had been summoned," replied Dave Darrin.

On entering the lawyer's office they found their other three chums there ahead of them. Tip Scammon was there, also, looking far from downcast.

Lawyer Ripley looked very grave. He looked, too, like a man who had a serious task to perform, and who meant to go about it courageously.

"Young gentlemen, I thank you all," said the lawyer slowly. "I am pursuing a matter in which I feel certain that I need your help. There has been some evil connection between Scammon and my son. What it is Scammon has refused to tell me. I will first of all tell you what I do know. I am telling you, of course, on the assumption that you are all young men of honor, and that you will treat a father's confidence as men of honor should do."

The boys bowed, wondering what was coming. Lawyer Ripley thereupon plunged into a narration of the happenings of the day before, telling it all with a lawyer's exactness of statement.

"And now I will ask you," wound up Mr. Ripley, "whether you can tell me anything about the hold that Scammon seems to have exercised over my son?"

"That's an embarrassing question, sir," Dick replied, after there had been a long pause.

"Do you know the nature of that hold?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I ask how you know?"

"I overheard a conversation, one night, between your son and Tip Scammon."

"What was the substance of that conversation?" pressed the lawyer.

"I don't quite see how I can tell you, sir," Dick responded slowly and painfully. "I'm not a tale bearer. I don't want to come here and play the tittle-tattle on your son."

"I respect your reluctance," nodded Lawyer Ripley. "But let me put it to you another way. I am the boy's father. I am responsible for his career in this world, as far as anyone but himself can be responsible. I am also seeking what is for the boy's best good. I cannot act intelligently unless I have exact facts. Both my son and Scammon are too stubborn to tell me anything. In the cause of justice, Prescott, will you answer me frankly?"

"That word, 'justice,' has an ominous sound, sir," Prescott answered. "It is generally connected with the word punishment, instead of with the word mercy."

"I suspect that my son has been your very bitter enemy, Prescott," said the lawyer keenly. "I suspect that he has plotted against you and all your chums. Would you now try to shield him from the consequences of such acts?"

"Why, sir, I think any boy of seventeen is young enough to have another chance."

"And I agree with you," cried the lawyer, a sudden new light shining in his eyes. "Now, will you be wholly frank with me if I promise you that my course toward my son will be one that will give him every chance to do better if he wants to?"

"That's an odd bargain to have to make with a father," smiled Dick.

"It is," admitted Lawyer Ripley, struck by the force of the remark. "You've scored a point there, Prescott. Well, then, since I am the boy's father, and since I want to do him full justice on the side of mercy, if he'll have it—will you tell all of the truth that you know to that boy's father?"

Dick glanced around at his chums. One after another they nodded. Then the High School pitcher unburdened himself. Tip Scammon sat up and took keen notice. When Dick had finished with all he knew, including the tripping with the pole, and the soft-soaping of the sidewalk before his home door, Tip was ready to talk.

"I done 'em all," he admitted, "includin' the throwin' of the brickbats. The brickbats was on my own hook, but the pole and the soft soap was parts of the jobs me and Fred put up between us."

"Why did you throw the brickbats on your own hook?" asked Lawyer Ripley sharply.

"Why, you see, 'squire, 'twas just like this," returned Tip. "After I'd done it, if I had hurt Prescott, then I was goin' to go to your son an' scare 'im good an' proper by threatenin' to blab that he had hired me to use them brickbats. That'd been good fer all his spendin' money, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, and for all he could steal, too," replied Lawyer Ripley.

"I didn't know nothing about his stealin' money," retorted Tip, half virtuously. "I jest thought he had too much pocket money fer his own good, an' so I'd help him spend some of it. But, see here, lawyer, ye promised me that, if I did talk, nothin' I told yer should be used against myself."

"I am prepared to keep that promise," replied Mr. Ripley coldly.

The sound of a slight stir came from the doorway between the outer and inner office. There in the doorway, his face ghastly white, his whole body seeming devoid of strength, leaned Fred Ripley.

"I had almost forgotten that I asked you to come here," said Mr. Ripley, as he looked up. "How long have you been here?"

"Not very long, perhaps, but long enough to know that Dick Prescott and the rest have been doing all they can to make matters harder for me," Fred answered in a dispirited voice.

"As it happens, they have been doing nothing of the sort," replied the lawyer crisply. "Come in here, Fred. I have had the whole story of your doings, but it was on a pledge that I would give you another chance to show whether there's any good in you. Fred, I can understand, now that you've always thought yourself better than most boys—above them. The truth is that you've a long way to go to get up to the level of ordinary, decent, good American boyhood. You may get there yet; I hope so. But come, sir, are you going to make a decent apology to Prescott and his friends for the contemptible things you've tried to do to them?"

Somehow, Fred Ripley managed to mumble his way through an apology, though he kept his eyes on the floor all the while. Full of sympathy for the father who, if proud, was at least upright, Dick and his chums accepted that apology, offered their hands, then tip-toed out, leaving father and son together.

XXII. ALL ROADS LEAD TO THE SWIMMING POOL

In the next few weeks, if Fred Ripley didn't improve greatly in popularity, he was at all events vastly quieter and more reserved in his manner.

Tip Scammon had vanished, so far as common knowledge went. Mr. Ripley, feeling somewhat responsible for that scamp's wrong doing, in that Fred had put him up to his first serious wrong doing, had given Scammon some money and a start in another part of the country. That disappearance saved Scammon from a stern reckoning with Prescott's partners, who had not forgotten him.

Fred was again a well-dressed boy, also a well-mannered one. He had very little to say, and he kept his snobbishness, if any remained, well concealed.

Dick & Co., after the scene in the lawyer's office, if not exactly cordial with the unhappy junior, at all events remembered that they had agreed to "forget." Nor were Prescott and his chums priggish enough to take great credit to themselves for their behavior. They merely admitted among themselves that any fellow ought to have the show that was now accorded to the younger Ripley.

Baseball had gone off with an hurrah this season, though there had been an enormous amount of hard work behind all the successes.

Now, but one game remained. Out of fourteen played, so far, only one had resulted in a tie; the others had all been victories for Gridley.

With the warm June weather commencement was looming near. One Wednesday morning there was a long and tedious amount of practice over the singing that was to be offered at the close of the school year.

"Huh! I thought we'd never get through," snorted Prescott, as he raced out into the school yard. "And we were kept ten minutes over the usual time for recess."

"Gee, but it's hot to-day," muttered Tom Reade, fanning himself with his straw hat.

"Oh, what wouldn't I give, right now, for a good swim down at Foster's Pond!" muttered Purcell moodily.

"Well, why can't we have it?" suggested Gint.

"We couldn't get back by the time recess is over," replied Purcell.

"The end of recess would be when we did get back, wouldn't it!" asked a senior.

"Let's go, anyway!" urged another boy, restlessly.

As students were allowed to spend their recess quietly on the near-by streets, if they preferred, the girls generally deserted the yard.

The spirit of mischievous mutiny was getting loose among the young men. Nor will anyone who remembers his own school days wonder much at that. In June, when the end of the school year is all but at hand, restraints become trebly irksome.

Dick's own face was glowing. As much as any boy there he wanted a swim, just now, down in Foster's Pond. Oh, how he wanted it!

"See here, fellows," Prescott called to some of the nearest ones. "And you especially, Charley Grady, for you're studying to be a lawyer."

"What has a lawyer to do with the aching desire for a swim?" inquired Grady.

"Well, post us a bit," begged Dick. "What was it the great Burke had to say about punishing a community?"

"Why," responded Grady thoughtfully, "Burke laid down a theory that has since become a principle in law. It was to the effect that a community cannot be indicted."

"All of us fellows—all of us might be called a community, don't you think?" queried Dick.

"Why—er—aha—hem!" responded Grady.

"Oh, come, now, drop the extras," ordered Dick. "Time is short. Are we a community, in a sort of legal sense? Just plain yes or no."

"Well, then, yes!" decided Grady.

"Whoop!" ejaculated Dick, placing his straw hat back on his head and starting on a sprint out of the yard. His chums followed. Some of the fellows who were nearer the gate tried to reach it first. In an instant, the flight was general.

"Come on, Rip! You're not going to hang back on the crowd, are you?" uttered one boy, reproachfully. "Don't spoil the community idea."

So Fred Ripely tagged on at the rear of the flight.

"What is it, boys—a fire?" called Laura Bentley. A dozen girls had drawn in, pressing against the wall, to let this whirlwind of boys go by.

"Tell you when we get back," Purcell called. "Time presses now."

It took the leaders only about four minutes to reach Foster's Pond. Even Ripley and the other tail-enders were on hand about a minute later. There was a fine grove here, fringed by thick bushes, and no houses near. In a jiffy the High School boys were disrobing.

"And the fellow who 'chaws' anyone else's clothes, to-day," proposed Dick, "is to be thrown in and kept in, when he's dressed!"

"Hear! hear!"

Dick was one of the first to get stripped. He started on a run, glided out over a log that lay from the bank, and plunged headlong into one of the deepest pools. Then up he came, spouting water.

"Come on, in, fellows! The water's grand!" he yelled.

Splash! splash! The surface of the pond at that point was churned white. The bobbing heads made one think of huckleberries bobbing on a bowl of milk.

Splash! splash! More were diving in. And now the fun and the frolic went swiftly to their height.

"This is the real thing!" vented one ecstatic swimmer. "Down with 'do-re—mi-fa-sol!"

"As long as we're all to be hanged together, what say if we don't go back at all to-day?" questioned Purcell.

There were some affirmative shouts, but Dick, who had just stepped back on the bank for a moment shook his head.

"Don't be hogs, fellows!" he urged. "Don't run a good thing into the ground. We'll have our swim, get well cooled off—and then we'd better go back looking as penitent as the circumstances seem to call for."

"I guess it's the wise one talking," nodded Purcell, as he climbed to the bank preparatory to another dive.

For at least twenty minutes the High School boys remained at their delightful sport. Then cries started here and there:

"All out! All out!"

Reluctantly the youngsters began to leave the water.

"Now, don't let anyone lag," begged Purcell. "As we ran away together, we ought all to go back together."

So dressing went on apace. Then the fellows began to look at each other, wonderingly. To be sure, they didn't stand so much in personal awe of the principal. But then Mr. Cantwell had the Board of Education behind him. There was Superintendent Eldridge, also, and back of it all, what parents might—oh, hang it, it began to look just a bit serious now.

"Who are the heroes here?" called out one fellow.

"Why?" demanded another.

"Well, we need our assured brave ones to lead going back."

"That's where the baseball squad comes in, then," nodded Purcell. "School nine and subs first, second team following. Then let the chilly-footed ones bring up the rear."

"We can go back in column of fours," proposed Dick, as he fastened on his collar, "with no leaders or file-closers. Then it will be hard to guess at any ring-leaders."

"That's the best idea yet," agreed Purcell. "Then, fellows, a block from the school, let the baseball squad form first, and then all of the rest of you fall in behind in column of fours, just as you happen along."

"And keep good ranks, and march the best you know how," urged Dick. "Unyielding ranks may suggest the community idea to Prin."

"Then we won't have to explain it," laughed Grady.

"Oh, come, now," shouted another, "don't flatter yourselves that we're going to get out of some tall explaining."

A block from the school the order was given to form fours. This was quickly done. Purcell, Dick, Darrin and Dan Dalzell composed the first four as the line turned into the yard.

There at the main doorway the culprits beheld the principal. And that gentlemen certainly looked almost angry about something. The weather indications were for squalls in the High School.

"Go to your seats in the assembly room," said the principal, coldly, as the head of the line neared him. As the boys wore no overcoats it was not necessary to file down to the locker rooms first. They marched into the hat room just off of the assembly room. And here they found Mr. Drake on duty.

"No conversation here. Go directly to your seats," ordered Mr. Drake.

The few girls who were not at classes looked up with eyes full of mischievous inquiry when the boys entered the big room. The principal and Mr. Drake took their seats on the platform. The late swimmers reached for their books, though most of them made but a pretense of study. Almost at once there was another diversion made by the girls who were returning from recitations.

Then the bell was struck for the beginning of the next period. Out filed the sections. The boys began to feel that this ominous quiet boded them no good. Not until closing time did the principal make any reference to the affair.

"The young ladies are dismissed for the day," he remarked. "The young gentlemen will remain." Clang!

Then a dead silence fell over the room. It was broken, after a minute, by the principal, who asked:

"Where were you, young gentlemen, when the end of recess bell rang this morning!"

No one being addressed, no one answered.

"Where were you, Mr. Purcell?"

"Swimming at Foster's Pond, sir."

"All of you?"

"All of us, sir, I think."

"Whose idea was it?"

"As I remember, sir, the idea belonged to us all."

"Who made the first proposal?"

"That would be impossible to say, now, sir."

"Do you remember anything about it?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was it?"

"I believe the fellows voted that Mr. Grady, who is studying to be a lawyer, should represent us as counsel."

"Ah! I shall be very glad, then, to hear from Judge Grady," the principal dryly remarked.

"Judge" Grady bobbed up, smiling and confident—or he seemed so. As for the rest of the fellows, the principal's frigid coolness was beginning to get on their nerves.

"Mr. Principal," began Grady, thrusting his right band in between his vest buttons, "the illustrious, perhaps immortal Burke, once elucidated a principle that has since become historic, authoritative and illuminating. Among American and English jurists alike, Burke's principle has been accepted as akin to the organic law and the idea is that a community cannot be indicted."

It was a fine speech, for Grady had real genius in him, and this was the first chance he had ever had. The principal waited until the budding legal light had finished. Then Mr. Cantwell cleared his throat, to reply crisply:

"While I will not venture to gainsay Burke, and he is not here to be cross-examined, I will say that the indictment of the community, in this instance, would mean the expulsion of all the young men in the High School. To that form of sentence I do not lean. A light form of punishment would be to prohibit absolutely the final baseball game of the school season. A sever form would be to withhold the diplomas of the young men of the graduating senior class. I think it likely that both forms of punishment will be administered, but I shall not announce my decision to-day. It will come later. The young men are dismissed." Clang!

Dismay would have been a mild name for what the fellows felt when they found themselves outside the building. Of the principal, in a rage they were little afraid. But when the principal controlled his temper he was a man in authority and of dangerous power.

After his own meal, and some scowling reflection, Mr. Cantwell set out to find his friend and backer in the Board of Education, Mr. Gadsby. That custodian of local education heard Mr. Cantwell through, after which he replied:

"Er—um—-ah—my dear Cantwell, you can't very well prohibit the game, or talk of withholding diplomas from the young men of the graduating class. Either course would make you tremendously unpopular. The people of Gridley would say that you were lacking in—era sense of humor."

"Sense of humor?" raged the principal, getting up and pacing the floor. "Is it humorous to have a lot of young rascals running all over one's authority?"

"Certainly not," responded Mr. Gadsby. "You should—er—preserve discipline."

"How am I to preserve discipline, if I can't inflict punishments?" insisted Mr. Cantwell.

"But you should—er—that is—my dear Cantwell, you should make the punishments merely fit the crimes."

"In such an outrageous case as to-day's," fumed the principal, "what course would have been taken by the Dr. Thornton whom you are so fond of holding up to me as a man who knew how to handle boys?"

"Dr. Thornton," responded Mr. Gadsby, "would have been ingenious in his punishment. How long were the boys out, over recess time?"

"Twenty-five minutes."

"Then," returned Mr. Gadsby, "I can quite see Dr. Thorton informing the young men that they would be expected to remain at least five times as long after school as they had been improperly away from it. That is—er—ah—he would have sent for his own dinner, and would have eaten it at his desk, with scores of hungry young men looking on while their own dinners went cold. At three o'clock—perhaps—Dr. Thornton would have dismissed the offenders. It would be many a day before the boys would try anything of that sort again on good old Thornton. But you, my dear Cantwell, I am afraid you have failed to make the boys respect you at all times. The power of enforcing respect is the basis of all discipline."

"Then what shall I do with the young men this time?"

"Since you have—er—missed your opportunity, you—er—can do nothing, now, but let it pass. Let them imagine, from day to day, that sentence is still suspended and hovering over them."

Wily Dick Prescott had been to see Mr. Gadsby, just before the arrival of the principal. In his other capacity of reporter for "The Blade" the High School pitcher had said a few earnest words to his host. Mr. Gadsby, with his eye turned ever toward election day and the press, had been wholly willing to listen.

XXIII. THE AGONY OF THE LAST BIG GAME

"Ya, ya, ya! Ye gotter do somethings!"

This from Mr. Schimmelpodt. That gentleman was waving one of his short, fat arms wildly. It may as well be stated that from the smaller extremity of that arm, namely, his hand—a small crimson and gold banner attached to a stick cut circles in the air.

"Go to it, Gridley!"

"Get busy! You can't take a black eye at this end of the season."

Gridley High School with a season's record of one tied game and a long tally of victories, seemed now in dire straits.

Sides were changing for the last half of the ninth inning.

Gridley had taken seven runs. Wayland High School, with six runs already to their credit, was now going to bat for the last inning unless the score should be tied.

The perfect June day, just before commencement, had brought out a host. Wayland had sent nearly four hundred people. The total attendance was past four thousand paid admissions.

Herr Schimmelpodt, who, since his first enthusiasm, had not missed a game, was now among the most concerned.

The band was there, but silent. The leader knew that, in this state of affairs the spectators wanted to make the noise themselves.

"Oh, you Dick!"

"Strike 'em out as fast as they come up."

"Save Gridley!"

"Aw, let somebody have a game," roared a voice from the Wayland seats, "and we need this one!"

"Prescott, remember the record!"

"No defeats this year!"

"Don't give us one, now!"

Dick & Co. were in full force on the nine today. True, Dave Darrin sat only on the sub bench to-day, but he was ready to give relief at any moment if Gridley's beloved pitcher, Prescott, went under.

Holmes was out in left field; Hazelton was the nimble shortstop; Dalzell pranced at the first bag on the diamond; Tom Reade was eternally vigilant on second base.

Gridley's High School girls, devoted feminine fans as any in the world, were breathing soft and fast now. If only Dick, backed at need by the outfield, could keep Wayland from scoring further, then all was well. If Wayland should score even once in this inning, it would make a tie and call for a tenth inning. If Wayland scored twice—but that was too nerve-racking to contemplate.

Then a hush fell. The umpire had called for play.

Dick let drive with his most tantalizing spitball. The leather fell down gracefully under the Wayland's batsman's guess, and Purcell mitted the ball.

"Strike one!"

A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one word from Wayland fans:

"Wait!"

Dick served the second ball. Swat! There it went, arching up in the air, a fair hit. As fast as he could leg it went Holmes after it, and with good judgment. But the ball got there before Greg did. In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball up and in motion. Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled toward first. But the runner saw his error in leaving first, and slid back in season.

Turning back, with his lips close together, Dick tried a new batsman. Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in and get it, driving it on to first base.

"Safe at first," called the umpire, and the other Waylander had reached second.

"O-o-o-h!"

"Don't let 'em have it, Dick—don't!"

The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid no heed. He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators. He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end of the game.

The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist, but Dick nerved himself for better efforts. Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full.

"O-o-oh, Dick!"

It was a wail, full of despair. Though he paid no direct heed to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to wipe the old sweat out of his eyes. His heart was pounding with the strain of it. Dick Prescott, born soldier, would have died for victory, just then. At least, that was what he felt.

The Wayland man who now stood over the plate looked like a grinning monkey as he took the pitcher's measure.

"Go to it, Dickson—kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans. "Just a little two-bagger—that's all!"

Dick felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling impatiently for him to deliver.

Dick essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin Dickson of Wayland reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air.

There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in time—and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while Purcell made the home plate at a bound.

Dick raced—raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt as if steam had shut down.

Across the grass raced Prescott, as though he believed he could make history in fifths of seconds.

In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind him.

There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was, Pitcher Dick rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap—but he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out of the air.

Barely did Dick's feet touch the ground when he simply reached over and dropped the ball at Purcell.

The captain of the Gridley nine dropped to one knee, hands low, but he took the leather in—took it just the bare part of a second before the Waylander from third got there.

For an instant the dazed crowd held its breath just long enough to hear the umpire announce.

"Striker out! Out at home plate. Two out!"

Then the tumult broke loose.

For an instant or two Dick stood dizzy just where he had landed on his feet.

Umpire Davidson came bounding over.

"Do you want to call for a relief pitcher, Prescott?"

"No—Wayland pitched all through with one man!"

Back to the box marched Dick Prescott, but he took his time about it. He had need of a clear head and steadier nerves and muscles, for Wayland had a man again at third, and another dancing away from second. There was plenty of chance yet to lose.

"Prescott ought to call you out," whispered Fred Ripley to Dave.

"And I'd get out there on the dead run, just as you would, Rip. But you know how Dick feels. Wayland went through on one man, and Dick's going to do it if he lives through the next few minutes!"

While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation. Sandwiched in between two strikes were called balls enough to send the new batsman to first, and again the bases were full. One more "bad break" of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a present. And then one more—it would be the High School pitcher handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors!

Dick braced himself supremely for the next man at bat.

"Strike one!"

It wasn't the batter's fault. A very imp had sat on the spitball that Prescott bowled in.

"Strike two!"

The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn't help it. Dick Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first inning. But it couldn't last.

Gink! It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward. A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right infield. There was no shortstop here. The instant that Prescott took in the direction he was on the run. There was no time to get there ahead of the rolling leather. It was Dick's left foot that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent and swooped it up—wheeled.

Wayland's man from third base looked three fourths of the way in. Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home plate.

Into that throw Dick put all the steam he had left in. The leather gone from his hand, he waited. His heart seemed to stop.

To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach the home plate at the same instant. The umpire, crouching, squinting, had the best view of all.

It was an age before Dick, with the mists before his eyes, heard the faraway words for which thousands waited breathlessly:

"Out at home—three out!"

Three disheartened base runners turned and slouched dispiritedly toward the dressing rooms.

"You could have hit that ball a better swipe," growled Wayland's captain to the last man at bat. The victim of the rebuke didn't answer. He knew that he had faced a pitcher wholly rejuvenated by sheer grit and nerve force.

At its loudest the band was blaring forth "At the Old Ball Game," and thousands were following with the words. Wayland fans were strolling away in dejection, but Gridley folks stood up to watch and cheer.

The whole nine had done its duty in fine shape, but Dick Prescott had made himself the idol of the Gridley diamond.

When the band stopped, the cheers welled forth. The lion's share was for Prescott, but Darrin was not forgotten. Even Ripley, who had pitched three of the minor games, came in for some notice.

Dick?

With the strain and suspense gone he felt limp and weak for a few minutes. Under the cold shower he revived somewhat. Yet, when he started homeward, he found that he ached all over. With the last game of the season gone by, Dick half imagined that his right wrist was a huge boil.

At the gateway Schimmelpodt, that true devotee of sport, waited. As the young High School pitcher came forth Herr Schimmelpodt rested a fat hand on the boy's shoulder, whispering in his ear:

"Ach! But I know vere is dere a real jointed fishpole. It was two dollar, but now it stands itself by, marked to one-nineteen. In der morning, Bresgott, it shall be yours. Und listen!"

Dick looked up into the blinking eyes.

"Dot fishpole for der summer use is goot fine! Und venever you see me going by bis my vagon, don't you be slow to holler und ask me for a ride!"

XXIV. CONCLUSION

Commencement Day!

For a large percentage of High School boys and girls, the end of the sophomore year marks the end of their schooling.

This was true at Gridley as elsewhere. When the crowd came forth from commencement exercises at the Opera House on this bright, warm June afternoon, there were not a few of the sophomores who were saying good-bye to the classic halls of instruction.

Not so, however, with Dick & Co. They were bound all the way through the course, and hoped to take up with college or other academic training when once good old Gridley High School must be left behind.

"What are you going to do this summer, Prescott?" asked Dr. Bentley, gripping the lad's arm, as Dick stood on the sidewalk chatting with Dave Darrin.

"Work, mostly, doctor. I'm getting near the age when fellow should try to bear some of the expense of keeping himself."

"What will you work at?"

"Why, reporting for 'The Blade.' I believe I can capture a good many stray dollars this summer."

"Good enough," murmured Dr. Bentley, approvingly. "But are you going to have any spare time?"

"A little, I hope—just about enough for some rest."

"Then I'll tell you where you can take that rest," went on the medical man. "My family are going into camp for the summer, in three days. They'll be over at the lake range, on a piece of ground that I've bought there. You can get over once in a while, and spend a night or two, can't you? Mrs. Bentley charged me to ask you and Darrin," added the physician. "Belle Meade is going to spend the summer in camp with Laura."

Both boys were prompt with their thanks.

"Confound it," muttered Dr. Bentley, "I'm forgetting two thirds of my message at that. The invitation includes all of Dick & Co. Now remember you'll all be looked for from time to time, and most heartily welcome."

Both boys were most hearty in their thanks. This took care of whatever spare time they might have, for Dave, too, was to be busy a good deal of the time. He had work as an extra clerk at the express office.

Then the two girl chums came along. Dick and Dave strolled along with Laura and Belle. The other partners of Dick & Co. were soon to be seen, their narrow-brimmed straw hats close to bobbing picture hats.

"Your father gave us a message, Laura," Dick murmured to the girl beside him.

"And you're going to accept it?" asked the girl quickly.

"At any chance to be honestly away from work," Dick promised fervently. "Yet at my age a fellow must keep something of an eye toward business, too, Laura."

"Yes," she answered slowly, glancing covertly at the bronzed young face and the strong, lithe body. "You're nearing manhood, Dick."

"Just about as rapidly as you're growing into womanhood, Laura," answered the boy.

Dave and Belle were chatting, too, but what they said wouldn't interest very staid old people.

Gridley was prouder than ever of its athletic teams. The great record in baseball, with Dick & Co. in the team, was something worth talking about.

Lest there be some who may think that a season of baseball with no defeats is an all but impossible record, the chronicler hastens to add that there are, through the length and breadth of these United States, several High School teams every year that make such a showing.

Yet, in baseball, as in everything else, the record is reached only by nines like the Gridley crowd, where the stiffest training, the best coaches and the best individual nerve and grit among the players are to be found.

Did Fred Ripley truly make good?

What else happened?

These and various other burning questions must now be answered in the chronicle of the time to which they belonged. So the reader is referred to the next volume in this series, which is to be published at once under the caption: "The High School Left End; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron."

At the same time, no interested reader will allow himself to overlook the second volume in the "High School Boys' Vacation Series," which runs parallel with this present series. All the wonderful summer vacation adventures that followed the sophomore year of Prescott and his chums will be found in the volume published under the title, "The High School Boys' In Summer Camp; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven." It is a thrilling story that no follower of the fortunes of these lads can afford to overlook.

THE END

THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END

or

Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron

CONTENTS

I. Sulking in the Football Camp

II. The Start of the Dodge Mystery

III. Dick Stumbles on Something

IV. The 'Soreheads' in Conclave

V. At the End of the Trail

VI. The Small Soul of a Gentleman

VII. The Football Notice Goes Up

VIII. Dick Fires Both Barrels

IX. Bayliss Gets Some Advice

X. Two Girls Turn the Laugh

XI. Does Football Teach Real Nerve?

XII. Dick, Like Caesar, Refuses the Crown

XIII. Bert Dodge "Starts Something"

XIV. The "Strategy" of a School Traitor

XV. A "Fear" for the Plotter

XVI. "The Cattle Car for Yours"

XVII. Facing the "School Cut"

XVIII. "Prin." Gets in the Practice

XIX. Laura and Belle Have a Secret

XX. In the Line of Daring

XXI. The Price of Bravery

XXII. The Thanksgiving Day Game

XXIII. Sulker and Real Man

XXIV. Conclusion

XXV. Postscript

I. SULKING IN THE FOOTBALL CAMP

"Football is all at sixes and sevens, this year," muttered Dave Darrin disconsolately.

"I can tell you something more than that," added Tom Reade mysteriously.

"What?" asked Dick Prescott, looking at Reade with interest, for it was unusual for Reade to employ that tone or air.

"Two members of the Athletics Committee have intimated to Coach Morton that they'd rather see football passed by this year."

"What?" gasped Dick. He was staring hard now.

"Fact," nodded Tom. "At least, I believe it to be a fact."

"There must be something wrong with that news," put in Greg Holmes anxiously.

"No; I think it's all straight enough," persisted Tom, shaking his head to silence Holmes. "It came to me straight enough, though I don't feel at liberty to tell you who told me."

All six members of Dick & Co. were present. The scene of the meeting was Dick Prescott's own room at his home over the bookstore kept by his parents. The hour was about nine o'clock in the evening. It was Friday evening of the first week of the new school year. The fellows had dropped in to talk over the coming football season, because the week had been one of mysterious unrest in the football squad at Gridley High School.

Just what the trouble was, where it lay or how it had started was puzzling the whole High School student body. The squad was not yet duly organized. This was never attempted until in the second week of the school year. Yet it was always the rule that the new seniors who, during their junior year, had made good records on either the school eleven, or the second eleven, should form the nucleus of the new pigskin squad. Added to these, were the new juniors, formerly of the sophomore class, who had shown the most general promise in athletics during the preceding school year.

Gridley High School aimed to lead—to be away at the top—in all school athletics. The "Gridley spirit," which would not accept defeat in sports, was proverbial throughout the state.

And so, though the football squad was not yet formally organized for training and practice, yet, up to the last few days, it had been expected that a finer gridiron crowd than usual would present itself for weeding, sifting and training by Coach Morton. The latter was also one of the submasters of Gridley High School.

Since the school year had opened, however, undercurrent news had been rife that there would be many "soreheads," and that this would be an "off year" in Gridley football. Just where the trouble lay, or what the "kick" was about, was a puzzle to most members of the student body. It was an actual mystery to Dick & Co.

"What is all the undermining row about, anyway?" demanded Dick, looking around at his chums. Dick was pacing the floor. Dave, Tom and Greg Holmes were seated on the edge of the bed. Dan Dalzell was lying back in the one armchair that the room boasted. Harry Hazelton was standing by the door.

"I can't make a single thing out of it all," sighed Dan. "All I can get at is that some of the seniors and some of our class, the juniors, are talking as though they didn't care about playing this year. I know that Coach Morton is worried. In fact, he's downright disheartened."

"Surely," interjected Dick, "Mr. Morton must have an idea of what is keeping some of the fellows back from the team?"

"If he does know, he isn't offering any information," returned Harry Hazelton.

"I don't see any need for so much mystery," broke in Dave Darrin, in disgust.

"Well, there is a mystery about it, anyway," contended Tom Reade.

"Then, before I'm much older, I'm going to know what that mystery is," declared Dick.

"You're surely the one of our crowd who ought to be put on the trail of the mystery," proposed Dalzell, with a laugh.

"Why?" challenged Prescott.

"Why, you're a reporter on 'The Blade.' Now mysteries are supposed to constitute the especial field of reporters. So, see here, fellows, I move that we appoint Dick Prescott a committee of one for Dick & Co., his job being to find out what ails football—to learn just what has made football sick this year."

"Hear! Hear!" cried some of the others.

"Is that your unanimous wish, fellows?" asked Dick, smiling.

"It is," the others agreed.

"Very good, then," sighed Prescott. "At no matter what personal cost, I will find the answer for you."

This was all in a spirit of fun, as the chums understood. Yet this lightly given promise was likely to involve Dick Prescott in a good deal more than he had expected.

Readers of the preceding volumes in this series know Dick & Co. so well that an introduction would be superfluous. Those to whom the pages of "The High School Freshmen" are familiar know how Dick & Co., chums from the Central Grammar School, entered Gridley High School in the same year. How the boys toiled through that first year as half-despised freshmen, and how they got some small share in school athletics, even though freshmen were not allowed to make the school athletic teams, has been told. The pranks of the young freshmen are now "old tales." How Dick Prescott, with the aid of his chums, put up a hoax that fairly seared the Board of Education out of its purpose to forbid High School football does not need telling again. Our former readers are also familiar with the enmity displayed by Fred Ripley, son of a wealthy lawyer, and the boomerang plot of Ripley to disgrace Prescott and brand the latter as a High School thief. The same readers will recall the part played in this plot by Tip Scammon, worthless son of the honest old High School janitor, and how Tip's evil work resulted in his going to the penitentiary for the better part of a year.

Readers of "The High School Pitcher" will recollect how, in their sophomore year, Dick and Co. made their first real start in High School athletics; how Dick became the star pitcher for the nine, and how the other chums all found places on the nine, either as star players or as "subs." In this volume also was told the story of Fred's moral disasters under the tyranny of Tip Scammon, Who threatened to "tell." How Dick & Co. were largely entitled to the credit for bringing the Gridley High School nine through a season's great record on the diamond was all told in this second volume. Dick's good fortune in getting a position as "space" reporter on "The Morning Blade" was also described, and some of his adventures as reporter were told. The culmination of Fred Ripley's scoundrelism, and his detection by his stern old lawyer father, were narrated at length. Perhaps many of our readers will remember, the unpopular principal of the High School, Mr. Abner Cantwell; and the swimming episode, in which every High School boy took part, afterwards meekly awaiting the impossible expulsion of all the boys of the High School student body. Our readers will recall that Mr. Cantwell had succeeded the former principal, Dr. Thornton, whom the boys had almost idolized, and that much of Mr. Cantwell's trouble was due to his ungovernable temper.

During the first two years of High School life, Dick & Co. had become increasingly popular. True, since these six chums were all the sons of families in very moderate circumstances, Dick & Co. had been disliked by some of the little groups of students who came from wealthier families, and who believed that High School life should be rather governed by a select few representing the move "aristocratic" families of the little city.

Good-humored avoidance is excellent treatment to accord a snob, and this, as far as possible, had been the plan of Dick & Co. and of the other average boy at the High School.

"Let us see," broke in Dick, suddenly, "who are the soreheads in the football line?"

"Well, Davis and Cassleigh, of the senior class, for two," replied Dave Darrin.

"Dodge, Fremont and Bayliss, also first classmen," suggested Reade.

"Trenholm and Grayson, also seniors," brought in Greg Holmes.

"Then there are Porter, Drayne and Whitney," added Dave. "They're of this year's Juniors."

"And Hudson and Paulson, also of our junior class," nodded Harry Hazelton.

Dick Prescott had rapidly written down the names. Now he was studying the list carefully.

"They're all good football men," sighed Dick. "All men whose aid in the football squad is much needed."

"Drayne is the stuck-up chap, who uses the broad 'a' in his speech, and carries his nose up at an angle of forty-five degrees," chuckled Dan Dalzell. "He's the fellow I mortally offended by nicknaming him 'Sewers,' to mimic his name of 'Drayne.'"

"That wouldn't be enough to keep him out of football," remarked Dave quietly.

Dick looked up suddenly from his list.

"Fellows," he announced, "I've made one discovery."

"Out with it!" ordered Dan.

"Perhaps you can guess for yourselves what I have just found."

"We can't," admitted Hazelton meekly. "Please tell us, and save us racking our brains."

"Well, it's curious," continued Dick slowly, "but every one of these fellows—I believe you've given me all the names of the 'soreheads'"

"We have," affirmed Tom Reade.

"Well, I've just noted that every fellow on my sorehead roll of honor belongs to one of our families of wealth in Gridley."

Dick paused to look around him, to see how the announcement impressed his chums.

"Do you mean," hinted Hazelton, "that the soreheads are down on football because they prefer automobiles?"

"No." Dick Prescott shook his head emphatically.

"By Jove, Dick, I believe you're right," suddenly exclaimed Dave Darrin.

"So you see my point, old fellow?"

"I'm sure I do."

"I'm going to get examined for spectacles, then," sighed Dan plaintively. "I can't see a thing."

"Why, you ninny," retorted Dave scornfully, "the football 'soreheads' have been developing that classy feeling. They wear better clothes than we do, and have more pocket money. Many of their fathers don't work for a living. In other words, the fellows on Dick's list belong to what they consider a privileged and aristocratic set. They're the Gridley bluebloods—or think they are—and they don't intend to play on any football eleven that is likely to have Dick & Co. and a few other ordinary muckers on it."

"Muckers?" repeated Harry Hazelton flaring up.

"Cool down, dear chap, do!" urged Darrin, soothingly. "I don't mean to imply that we really are muckers, but that's what some of the classy group evidently consider us."

"Why, they say that Cassleigh's grandfather was an Italian immigrant, who spelled his name Casselli," broke in Dan Dalzell.

"I believe it, son," nodded Dave. "Old Casselli was an immigrant and an honest fellow. But he had the bad judgment to make some money in the junk business, and sent his son to college. The son, after the old immigrant died, took to spelling his name Cassleigh, and the grandson is the prize snob of the town."

"And Bayliss's father was indicted by the grand jury, seven or eight years ago, for bribery in connection with a trolley franchise," muttered Greg Holmes.

"Also currently reported to be true, my infant," nodded Dave sagely. "But the witnesses against the elder Bayliss skipped, and the district attorney never brought the case to trial. Case was quashed a year later, and so now the Baylisses belong to the Distinguished Order of Unconvicted Boodlers. That trolley stock jumped to six times its par value right after the case against Bayliss was dropped, you know."

"And, from what I've heard Mr. Pollock say at 'The Blade' office," Dick threw in, "the fathers of one or two of the other soreheads got their money in devious ways."

"Why, there's Whitney's father," laughed Dan Dalzell. "Did you ever hear how he got his start thirty years ago? Whitney's brother-in-law got into financial difficulties, and transferred to the elder Whitney property worth a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. When the financial storm blew over the brother-in-law wanted the property transferred back again, but the elder Whitney didn't see it that way. The elder Whitney kept the transferred property, and has since increased it to a half million or more."

"Oh, well," Dick interrupted, "let us admit that some of the fellows on the sorehead list have never been in jail, and have never been threatened with it. But I am sure that Dave has guessed my meaning right. The soreheads, who number a dozen of rather valuable pigskin men, are on strike just because some of us poorer fellows are in it."

"What nonsense!" ejaculated Greg Holmes disgustedly. "Why, Purcell isn't in any such crowd. Of course, Purcell's father isn't rich beyond the dreams of avarice, but the Purcells, as far as blood goes, are head and shoulders above the families of any of the fellows on Dick's little list."

"If that's really what the disagreement is over," drawled Dan, "I see an easy way out of it."

"Go ahead," nodded Dick.

"Let the 'soreheads' form the Sons of Tax-payers Eleven, and we'll organize a Sons of poor but Honest Parents Eleven. Then we'll play them the best two out of three games for the honor of representing Gridley High School this year."

"Bright, but not practicable," objected Dick patiently. "The trouble is that, if two such teams were formed and matched, neither team, in the event of its victory, would have all of the best gridiron stuff that the High School contains. No, no; what we want, if possible, is some plan that will bring the whole student body together, all differences forgotten and with the sole purpose of getting up the best eleven that Gridley can possibly send out against the world."

"Well, we are willing," remarked Darrin grimly.

"No! No, we're not," objected Hazelton fiercely. "If the snobs don't want to play with any of us on the team, then we don't want to play if they come in."

"Gently, gently!" urged Dick. "Think of the honor of your school before you tie your hands up with any of your own mean, small pride. Our whole idea must be that Gridley High School is to go on winning, as it has always done before. For myself, I had hoped to be on the eleven this year. Yet, if my staying off the list will put Gridley in the winning set, I'm willing to give up my own ambitions. I'm going to put the honor of the school first, and myself somewhere along about fourteenth."

"That's the only talk," approved Dave promptly. "Gridley must have the winning football eleven."

"Well, the whole thing is a shame," blazed Reade indignantly.

"Oh, well, don't worry," drawled Dan Dalzell. "Keep cool, and the whole thing will be fixed."

"Fixed?" insisted Reade. "How? How will it be fixed?"

"I don't know," Dan confessed, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "Just leave the worry alone. Let Dick fix it."

"How can you fix it?" asked Reade, turning upon their leader.

"I don't know—yet," hesitated Prescott. But, like Dan, I believe there's a way to be found."

"Going?" asked Hazelton. "Well, I'll trot along, too."

"Yes," nodded Greg. "It's a shame to stay here, hardening Dick's mattress when he ought to be lying on it himself. It's time we were all in bed. Good night, Dick, old fellow."

Four of the boys were speedily gone. Darrin, however, remained behind, though he intended to stay only a few minutes. The two were earnestly discussing the squally football "weather" when the elder Prescott's voice sounded from the foot of the stairs.

"Dick?"

"Yes, sir," answered the boy, throwing open the door and springing to the head of the stairs.

"Mr. Bradley, of 'The Blade,' wants to talk with you over the 'phone. In a hurry, too, he says.

"I'll be right there, Dad. Coming, Dave?"

Darrin nodding, the two chums ran down the stairs to the bookstore. Dick caught up the transmitter and answered.

"That you, Dick?" sounded the impatient voice of News Editor Bradley.

"This is Dick Prescott, Mr. Bradley."

"Then, for goodness' sake, can you hustle up here?"

"Of course I can."

"Ask your father if you can take up a late night job for me. Then come on the jump. My men are all out, and everything is at odds and ends in the way of news. I can't get a single man, and I wish I had three at this minute."

"Dave Darrin is here. Can I bring him along?"

"Yes; he's not a reporter—but he may be able to help. Hustle."

"I'll be walking in through the doorway," laughed Dick, "by the time you've hung your transmitter up. Good-bye." Ting-a-ling-ling! "Now, Dave, get your father on the jump, and ask his leave to go out on a late night story with me."

Fortunately there was no delay about this. Dave received the permission from home promptly enough. The two youngsters set out on a run.

What healthy boy of sixteen doesn't love to prowl late a night? It is twenty-fold more fascinating when there's a mystery on tap, and a newspaper behind all the curiosity.

The longing of these sturdy chums for mystery and adventure was swiftly to be gratified—perhaps more so than they could have wished!

News Editor Bradley was waiting for them in the doorway of "The Blade" office, a frown on the journalistic face.

II. THE START OF THE DODGE MYSTERY

"This is the way it always goes," jerked out Bradley, as the two High School boys hurried into the office after him.

"One of my men is sick, and the other two are somewhere—where, I can't find out."

"All" his men sounded large enough; as a matter of fact, the only reporters "The Blade" employed were three young men on salary, and Dick Prescott, mainly as gleaner of school news. Dick didn't receive any salary, but was paid a dollar a column.

"What's happening, anyway?" Dick asked coolly.

"You know Theodore Dodge?" demanded Mr. Bradley.

"I know him when I see him; he never talks with me," Prescott replied.

"Theodore Dodge is the father of a fellow in our senior class at High School," Dave put in, adding under his breath, "and the son is one of our football 'soreheads.'"

"Dodge has vanished," continued Bradley. "He went out early this morning, and hasn't been seen since. Tonight, just after dark, a man walking by the river, up above the bend, picked up a coat and hat on the bank. Letters in the pocket showed the coat to be Mr. Dodge's. The finder of the coat hurried to the Dodge house, and Mrs. Dodge hurriedly notified the police, asking Chief Coy to keep the whole matter quiet. Jerry (Chief Coy) doesn't know that we have a blessed word about this. But Jerry, his plain clothes man, Hemingway, and two other officers are out on the case. They have been on the job for nearly three hours. So far they haven't learned a word. They can't drag the river until daylight comes. Now, Prescott, what occurs to you as the thing to do?"

"I guess the only thing," replied Dick quietly, "is to find Theodore Dodge."

Mr. Bradley gasped.

"Well, yes; you have the right idea, young man. But can you find Dodge, Dick?"

"When do you go to press?"

"Latest at four o'clock in the morning."

"I think I can either find Theodore Dodge, or else find where he went to," Prescott replied, slowly. "Of course, that's brag—not promise."

"You get us the story—straight and in detail," cried Bradley, eagerly, "and there'll probably be a bit extra in it for you—a good bit, perhaps. If Dodge doesn't turn up without sensation this is going to be our big story for a week. Dodge, you know, is vice-president and actual head of the Second National Bank."

"Whew!" thought Dave Darrin, to himself. "It's easy enough for any suspicious person to imagine a story! But it might not be the right one."

"Some time ago," asked Dick thoughtfully, "didn't you publish a story about some of the big amounts of insurance carried by local rich men?"

"Yes," nodded Bradley.

"I think you stated that Theodore Dodge carried more than any other citizen of Gridley."

"Yes; he carries a quarter of a million dollars of insurance."

"Is the insurance payable to his widow, or others—or to his estate?"

"I don't know," mused News Editor Bradley, a very thoughtful look coming into his face.

"Well, it's worth while finding out," pursued Dick. "See here, suppose Dodge has been using the bank's funds, and found himself in a corner that he couldn't get out of? Then, if the insurance money goes to his widow, it would be hers, and no court could take it from her for the benefit of his creditors. If it goes to the estate, instead, then the insurance money, when paid over, could be seized and applied to cover any shortage of the missing man at the bank."

"So that——?" interrogated the news editor, his own eyes twinkling shrewdly.

"Why, in case—just in case, you understand—that Mr. Dodge has gone and gotten himself into trouble over the bank's funds, then it's probable that he has done one of two things. Either, in despair he has killed himself, so that either his widow or the bank will be protected. If the missing man didn't do away with himself, then probably he has put up the appearance of suicide in the hope that the officers of the law will be fooled of his trail, and that either a wronged bank or a deserted wife might get the insurance money. Of course, Mrs. Dodge might even be a party to a contemplated fraud, though that's not a fair inference against her unless something turns up to make it seem highly probable."

"My boy," cried Mr. Bradley admiringly, "you've all the instincts and qualities of the good newspaper man. I hope you'll take up the work when you get through the High School. But now to business!"

"Where do you want me to go? Where do you want me to take up the trail? Where it started, just above the river bend? That's out in the country, a mile and a half from here."

"Darrin," begged the news editor, "won't you step to the 'phone and ring up Getchel's livery stable? Ask the man in charge to we want a horse with a little speed and a good deal of endurance."

While Dave was busy at the wire Dick and the news editor talked over the affair in low tones.

"With the horse you can cover a lot of ground," suggested Bradley. "And you're right about taking up the trail where it started. In half an hour, if you don't strike something big, you can drive back here on the jump for further orders. And don't forget the use of the 'phone, if you're at a distance. Also, if you strike something, and want to follow it further, you can have Darrin drive in with anything that you've struck up to the minute. Hustle, both of you. And, Darrin, we'll pay you for your trouble tonight."

Horse and buggy were soon at the door. Dick sprang in, picking up the reins. Dave leaped in at the other side. The horse started away at a steady trot.

"I hope those boys have brains enough not to go right past the story," mused Bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back to his desk. "But I guess Prescott always has his head squarely on his shoulders. He does, in school athletics, anyway. Len Spencer is the man for this job, so of course Len had to be laid up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him out tonight."

Horse and buggy were soon at the door. Dick sprang in, picking up the reins. Dave leaped in at the other side. The horse started away at a steady trot.

"I hope those boys have brains enough not to go right past the story," mused Bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back to his desk. "But I guess Prescott always has his head squarely on his shoulders. He does, in school athletics, anyway. Len Spencer is the man for this job, so of course Len had to be laid up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him out to-night."

"Dick," muttered Dave excitedly, "you've simply got to make good. This isn't simply a little paragraph to be scribbled. It's a mystery and is going to be the sensation of the day. This is the kind of story that full-fledged reporters on the great dailies have to handle."

"Yes," laughed Dick, "and those reporters never get flurried. I'm not going to allow myself any excitement, either."

"No, but you want to get the story—all of it."

"Of course I do," Prescott agreed quietly.

"If you do this in bang-up shape," Dave went on enthusiastically, "it's likely to be the making of you!"

"How?" queried Dick, turning around to his chum.

"Why, success on a big story would fairly launch you in journalism. It would provide your career as soon as you're through High School."

"I don't want a career at the end of the High School course," Dick returned. "I'm going further, and try to fare better in life."

"Wouldn't you like to be a newspaper man for good?" demanded Dave.

"Not on a small-fry paper, anyway" replied Prescott. "Why, Bradley is news editor, and has been in the business for years. He gets about thirty dollars a week. I don't believe Pollock, who has charge of the paper, gets more than forty-five. That isn't return enough for a man who is putting in his whole life at the business."

"Thirty dollars has the sound of pretty large money," mused Dave. "As for forty-five, if that's what Mr. Pollock gets, look at the comfort he lives in at his club; and he's a real estate owner, too."

"Yes," Dick admitted. "But that's because Pollock follows two callings. He's an editor and a dealer in real estate. As for me, I'd rather put all my energies into one line of work."

"Then you believe you're going to earn more money than Pollock does?" questioned Dave, rather wonderingly.

"If I pick out a career for income," Dick responded, "I do intend to go in for larger returns. But I may go into another calling where the pay doesn't so much matter."

"Such as what?"

"Dave, old fellow, can you keep a secret?"

"Bosh! You know I can."

"A big secret?"

"Stop that!"

"Well, I'll tell you, Dave. By and by there are going to be, in this state, two appointments to cadetships at West Point. Our Congressman will have one appointment. Senator Alden will have the other. Now, in this state, appointments to West Point are almost always thrown open to competitive examination. All the fellows who want to go to West Point get together, at the call, and are examined. The fellow who comes off best is passed on to West Point to try his luck."

"And you think you can prove that you're the brightest fellow in the district?" laughed Dave good-humoredly.

"There are to be two chances, and I think I can prove that I'm one of the two brightest to apply. And Dave!"

"Well?"

"Why don't you go in to prove that you're the other brightest fellow. Just think! West Point! And the Army for a life career!"

"I think I'd rather scheme to go to the Naval Academy, and become an officer of the Navy," returned Dave slowly. "The big battleships appeal to me more than does the saddle of the cavalryman."

"Go to Indianapolis?" muttered Dick, in near-disgust. "Well, I suppose that will do well enough for a fellow who can't get to West Point."

"Now, see here," protested Dave good-humoredly, though warmly, "you quit talking about Indianapolis. That's a favorite trick with fellows who are cracked on West Point. You know, as well as I do, that the Naval Academy is at Annapolis. There's a vacancy ahead for Annapolis, too."

"Oho! You've been thinking of that?" demanded Dick, again looking into his chum's eyes.

"Yes."

"Yes; if I can come out best in a competitive examination of the boys of this district."

"Two secrets, then—yours and mine," grinned Prescott. "However, it'll be easier for you."

"Why?"

"There aren't so many fellows eager to go to the Naval Academy. It doesn't draw as hard as the Army does."

"The dickens it doesn't!" ejaculated Dave Darrin.

"No; the Navy doesn't catch young enthusiasm the way the Army does. You won't have so many fellows to compete with as I shall," said Dick.

"I'll have twice as many—three times as many," flared Darrin. "The Naval Academy is the only real and popular school in the United Service."

"Well, we won't quarrel," laughed young Prescott. "When the time comes we'll probably find smarter young fellows ahead of us, headed for both academies."

"If you do fail on West Point——?" quizzed Dave.

"If I do," declared Dick, with a very wistful emphasis on that "if," "then, after getting through High School I'll probably try to put in a year or two of hard work on 'The Blade,' to help my parents put me through college. They're anxious to make me a college man, and they'd work and save hard for it, but I wouldn't be much good if I didn't try to earn a lot of the expense money. One thing I'm resolved upon—I'm not going to go through life as a half-educated man. It is becoming more true, every year, that there's little show for the man with only the half-formed mind."

Then the two turned back to the subject that had brought them out on this September night—the disappearance of Banker Theodore Dodge.

"In a minute or two we'll be in sight of the river bend," announced Darrin.

"There it is, now," nodded Dick, slowing down the horse and gazing over yonder. "Some one is there, and looking hard for something."

"Yes; I make out a couple of lanterns," assented Dave. "Well"—as Dick pulled in the horse—"aren't you going to drive over there?"

"That's what I want to think about," declared young Prescott. "I want to go at the job the right way—the way that real newspapermen would use."

III. DICK STUMBLES ON SOMETHING

A few moments later Dick Prescott guided the horse down a shaded lane. "Whoa!" he called, and got out.

"What, now?" questioned Darrin, as his chum began to hitch the horse to a tree.

"I'm going to prowl over by the bend, and see who's there and what they are doing."

Having tied the horse, Dick turned and nodded to his friend to walk along with him.

"You know Bradley told us," Prescott explained, "that the police do not know that Dodge's disappearance has leaked out to the press. Most folks in Gridley know that I write for 'The Blade.' So I'm in no hurry to show up among the searchers. I intend, instead, to see what they're doing. By going quietly we can approach, through that wood, and get close enough to see and hear without making our presence known."

"I understand," nodded Darrin.

Within two or three minutes the High School reporter and his chum had gained a point in the bushes barely one hundred and fifty feet away from where two men and a boy, carrying between them two lanterns, were closely examining the ground near the bank. One of the men was Hemingway, who was a sort of detective on the Gridley police force. The other man was a member of the uniformed force, though just now in citizen's dress. The boy was Bert Dodge, son of the missing banker, and one of the best football men of the senior class of Gridley High School.

"It's odd that we can't find where the trail leads to," the eavesdroppers heard Hemingway mutter presently.

"I'm afraid," replied young Dodge, with a slight choke in his voice, "that our failure is due to the fact that water doesn't leave any trail."

"So you think your father drowned himself?" asked Hemingway, looking sharply at the banker's son.

"If he didn't, then some one must have pushed him into the river," argued Bert, in an unsteady voice.

"And I'm just about as much of the opinion," retorted Hemingway, "that your father left his hat and coat here, or sent them here, and didn't even get his feet wet."

"That's preposterous," argued the son, half indignantly.

"Well, there is the spot, right there, where the hat and coat were found. Now, for a hundred feet away, either up or down stream, the ground is soft. Yet there are no tracks such as your father would have left had he taken to the water close to where he left his discarded garments," argued Hemingway, swinging his lantern about.

"We've pretty well trodden down whatever footprints might have been here," disputed Bert Dodge. "I shan't feel satisfied until daylight comes and we've had a good chance to have the river dragged."

"Well, of course, it is possible you know of a reason that would make your father throw himself into the river?" guessed Officer Hemingway, with a shrewd glance at the son.

"Neither my mother nor I know anything about my father that would supply a reason for his suicide," retorted Bert Dodge stiffly. "But I can't see any reason for believing anything except that my poor dad must now be somewhere in the river."

"We'll soon be able to do the best that we can do by night," rejoined Hemingway. "Chief Coy has gone after a gasoline launch that carries an electric search-light. As soon as he arrives we'll go all over the river, throwing the light on every part of the water in search of some further clue. There's no use, however, in trying to do anything more around here. We may as well be quiet and wait."

"I can't stand still!" sounded Dodge's voice, with a ring of anguished suspense in it. "I've got to keep hunting."

"Go ahead, then," nodded the detective. "We would, too, if there were anything further that could be looked into. But there isn't. I'm going to stop and smoke until the launch heaves in sight."

Both policemen threw themselves on the ground, produced pipes and fell to smoking. But Bert Dodge, with the restlessness of keen distress, continued to stumble on up and down along the bank, flashing the lantern everywhere.

Presently Dodge was within sixty feet of where his High School mates crouched in hiding.

Suddenly the livery stable horse, some four or five hundred feet away, whinnied loudly, impatiently.

Natural as the sound was, young Dodge, in the tense state of his nerves, started and looked frightened.

"Wh-what was that?" he gasped.

"A horse," called Hemingway quietly. "Probably some critter passing on the road."

"I wish you'd see who's with that horse," begged young Dodge. "It may bring us news. I'm going, anyway."

With that, swinging the lantern, Bert Dodge started to cut across through the woods with its fringe of bushes.

Dave Darrin slipped away, and out of sight. Before Dick could do so, however, young Dodge, moving at a fast sprint, was upon him.

Bert stopped as though shot when he caught sight of the other boy.

"Dick Prescott?" he gasped.

"Yes," answered Dick quietly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see what news there is about the finding of your father."

Hemingway had now reached the spot, with the other policeman some yards to the rear.

"You write for 'The Blade,' don't you?" challenged Bert.

"Yes," Dick assented.

"And 'The Blade' people sent you here?" cried Bert Dodge, in a voice haughty with displeasure.

"Perhaps 'The Blade' sent me here," Dick only half admitted.

"Sent you here to pry into other people's affairs and secrets," continued young Dodge impetuously. Then added, threateningly:

"Don't you dare to print a word about this affair!"

Dick looked quietly at young Dodge.

"Did you hear me?" demanded Bert.

"Yes."

"Then what's your answer?"

"That I heard you, Bert."

"You young puppy!" cried Dodge, advancing threateningly. "Don't you address me familiarly."

"I don't care anything about addressing you at all," retorted Prescott, flushing slightly under the insult. "At present I can make allowances for you, for I fully understand how anxious you are. But that is no real excuse for insulting me."

"Are you going to heed me when I tell you to print nothing about my father's disappearance?" insisted young Dodge.

"That is something over which you really have no control," Dick replied slowly, though not offensively. "I take all my orders from my employers."

"You young mucker!" cried Bert, in exasperation. "You print anything about our family misfortunes, and I'll thrash you until you can't see."

"I won't answer that," Dick replied, "Until you make the attempt. But, see here, Dodge, you should try to keep cool, and as close to the line of gentlemanly speech and conduct as possible."

"A nice one you are, to lecture me on that subject," jeered Bert Dodge. "You—only a mucker! The son of——"

"Stop!" roared Dick, his face reddening. He advanced, his fists clenched. "If you're going to say anything against my father or mother, Bert Dodge, then stop before you say it! Before I break your neck!"

"Stop, both of you," interjected Hemingway, springing between the white-faced High School boys. "No blows are going to be struck while members of the police department are around. Dodge, of course, you're upset and nervous, but you're not acting the way a gentleman should, even under such circumstances."

"Then drive that fellow away from here!" commanded Bert.

"I can't," confessed the officer. "He is breaking no law, and has as much right to be here as we have."

"Oh, he objects to my saying anything against his father or mother, but he's out tonight to throw all manner of slime on my father's name," contended Bert Dodge. His voice broke under the stress of his pent-up emotion.

"You're wrong there, Dodge!" Dick broke in, forcing himself to speak calmly. "I'm here to gather the facts on a matter of news, but I am not out to throw any insinuations over your father, or anyone whose good name is naturally precious to you. Sometimes a reporter—even an amateur one—has to do things that are unpleasant, but they're all in the line of duty."

"'The Blade' won't print a line about this matter," raged Bert tremulously. "Mr. Ripley is my father's friend, and his lawyer, too. Mr. Ripley will go to your editor, and let him know what is going to happen if that scurrilous sheet——"

Here Bert checked himself, for Dick had begun to smile coldly.

"Confound you!" roared Bert Dodge. He leaped forward, intent on striking the young junior down. But Officer Hemingway pushed Dodge back forcefully.

"Come, come, now, Dodge, we won't have any of that," warned the officer. "And, if you want my opinion, you're not playing the part of a gentleman just now. Prescott understands your state of mind, however. He knows you're so upset, your mind so unhinged by the family trouble that you're doing and saying things that you'll be ashamed of by daylight."

"I suppose, next, you'll be inviting this reported fellow to go on the boat with us when it comes," sneered Bert Dodge.

"That would be for the chief to say. Reporters are, usually, allowed to go with the police. Come, come, Dodge," urged Hemingway, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder, "calm down and understand that Prescott is not offering to make any trouble, and that he has been very patient with a young fellow who finds himself in a heap of trouble."

"I can cut this short," offered Dick quietly. "I don't believe it would be worth my while, Mr. Hemingway, to ask the chief's permission to go on the boat with you. 'The Blade' can find out, later, whether you discover anything on the river."

"Where are you going, now?" demanded Bert unreasonably, as Prescott turned away.

"Back to the horse and buggy," Dick replied coolly.

"Then I'm going with you, and see you start back to town," asserted Bert Dodge.

Hemingway did not interfere, but, leaving his brother policeman at the river's edge, accompanied young Dodge. In a few minutes they arrived at the spot in the lane where Dick had tied the horse. Here they found Dave Darrin seated in the buggy. Dave glanced unconcernedly at them all, nodding to Hemingway way, who returned the salutation.

"Now, I'll watch you start away from here," snapped Bert.

"All right, then," smiled Dick, climbing in, after unhitching, and picking up the reins. "I won't keep you long."

With that, and a parting word to the policeman, Dick Prescott drove away.

"I saw Hemingway coming, and knew you wouldn't need me," Dave explained with a laugh. "So, to save Bert a double attack of nerves, I slipped off in the darkness, and came here. But what on earth ails Dodge, anyway?"

"Why, for one thing, he's worried to death about the disappearance of his father," replied Dick Prescott.

"I've seen people awfully worried before, and yet it didn't make madmen of them," snorted Darrin.

"Well—perhaps——"

Dick hesitated.

"Well—-?" Darrin insisted, rather impatiently.

"I'm half inclined to think that Bert Dodge has been leading the soreheads who sulk and won't play football in the same team with some of us common fellows," Dick laughed. "If so, the very fact of my being sent to look into the news side of his father's disappearance would make Bert feel especially sore at me."

"By George, you've hit the nail right on the head there," cried Dave. "That's the trouble. Bert has been leading a kick that was aimed very largely at Dick & Co., and now it almost puts him out of his head to find that Dick Prescott, of all the fellows in the school, has been sent by 'The Blade' to gather the facts concerning Theodore Dodge's mysterious disappearance—or death."

"Mr. Dodge isn't dead," replied Prescott slowly.

"What? And say! Do you realize, Dick, that you're letting the horse walk?"

"I intended to," returned Dick. "Whoa!"

"There's a boat coming up the river and showing a search-light," broke in Dave, pointing.

"I saw it. That's why I stopped the horse. It must be Chief Coy's launch that he went after. Yes; there it is, putting in where we first saw Bert Dodge and the officers."

"Well, if you're not going to keep track of the launch, why don't you hit a fast gait for the office?" queried Darrin.

"There is plenty of time yet," Dick replied, "and we've nothing to report to the office yet. I'm just waiting for that boat to take on its passengers and get well away from the spot."

"Oh!" guessed Dave. "Then you're going back and make your own search of the place?"

"You're clever," nodded Prescott, with a low laugh. "Yes; it may be that Hemingway and his companion have made a fine search. Or it may be that they've missed clues that a blind man ought to see."

So the two High School boys sat there, in the buggy drawn up at the side of the road, for the next fifteen minutes. In that time the launch took on the waiting passengers, and the light played over all that part of the river, then started down stream.

Dick slowly headed the horse about, this time driving much closer to the river's bank than he had done before.

"There's a lantern under the seat, Dave. I saw it when we started from 'The Blade' office. Haul it out and light it, will you?"

For some minutes the two High School boys searched without much result. At last Dick and Dave began to move in wider circles, away from the much-tramped ground. Then, holding the lantern close to the ground, Prescott moved nearer and nearer to the railway track, all the while scanning the soil closely.

"Look there, Dave!" suddenly called Prescott. "No——Don't look just yet," he added, holding the lantern behind him. "But tell me; you've often seen Mr. Dodge. What kind of boots did he wear?"

"Narrow, pointed shoes, and rather high heeled for a man to wear," Darrin answered.

"Exactly," nodded Dick. "Look there!"

Darrin bent down over a soft spot in the soil close to the railway roadbed. There were three prints of just such a boot as he had described.

"You see the small heel print," continued Prescott, in a whisper. "And you note that the front part of the foot makes a heavy impression, as it would when the foot is tilted forward by a high heel."

"I don't believe another man in the town ever wore a pair of boots such as made these prints," murmured Darrin excitedly. "And they're headed away from the river, toward the railroad! And look here—other footprints of a different kind!"

"You're right!" cried Prescott, holding the lantern closer to the ground and scanning some additional marks in the soil. "Coarse shoes; one pair of 'em brogans! Mr. Dodge had companions when he went away from here."

"They may have been forcing the man somewhere with them," quivered Darrin, staring off into the black night about them.

"No; not a sign of a struggle," argued Dick, still with his gaze on the ground. "No matter who Mr. Dodge's companions were, he went with them willingly. Gracious, Dave, but we were right in believing the banker to be still alive! Coat and hat at the water's edge were a blind! Mr. Dodge has his own reasons for wanting people to think him dead. He has sloped away. Here's the track. Which way did he and the fellows go?"

"Away from Gridley," declared Darrin, sagely. "Otherwise, Mr. Dodge would have been seen by some one who would remember him."

"We'll go up along the track, then."

This they did, but the roadbed was hard. Besides, anyone walking on the ties would leave no trail. It was slow work, holding the lantern close to the ground and scanning every step, besides swinging the lantern out to light up either side of their course. Yet both lads were so tremendously interested that they pushed on, heedless of the flight of time.

They had gone a mile or more up the track, "inching" it along, when they came upon an unmistakable print of Mr. Dodge's oddly pointed boot and narrow, high heel. They found, too, the print of a brogan within six feet of the same point.

"This is the way Dodge and his queer companions came," exulted Dave.

"But I don't believe they followed the track much further," argued Prescott, pointing ahead at the signal lights of a small crossing station. "If Mr. Dodge were trying to get away from public gaze he wouldn't go by a station where usually half a dozen loungers are smoking and talking with the station agent."

"We're lucky to have the trail this far," observed Dave Darrin. "But we can't follow it accurately at night. Say—gracious! Do you know what time it is? Half-past one in the morning!"

"Wow?" ejaculated Prescott, halting and looking dismayed. "It'll take us a good many minutes to get back to where we left the horse. It'll be after two o'clock when we hit 'The Blade' office. Dave, we simply can't follow the trail further tonight. But we must strike it first thing in the morning. It'll be a big thing for 'The Blade' to be the folks to find the missing banker and clear the mystery up."

"Unless Dodge just kept on until he came to one of the stations, and took a train. Then the trail would be a long one."

"He didn't take a train tonight," returned Prescott, shaking his head. "If he wanted to disappear that would be the wrong way to go about it. He'd be recognized from the descriptions that will go about broadcast. No, sir! Mr. Dodge must be hiding in some of the big stretches of woods over yonder. A regiment could hide and be lost in the great woods."

"It's a trail I hate to leave," muttered Dave Darrin.

"But we've got to wait until daylight. We can't do much in the dark, anyway. I've got to get back to 'The Blade' office. Get your bearings here, Dave. To make doubly sure I'll cut a slice out of this tie to mark the place where we found this print, for it may be indistinct by daylight."

Marking the location Dick Prescott wheeled and began to hurry back, followed by Darrin. In due time they reached the buggy, took the light blanket from the horse, unhitched and jumped in. Fast driving took them to "The Blade" office.

"You didn't learn anything, did you?" questioned Bradley.

"Yes; we did," Dick informed him. "The police, with their launch didn't get any trace of Mr. Dodge, did they?"

"No," admitted the news editor. "I've talked with Hemingway within the last hour. The police will begin dragging the river by daylight."

"They won't find the banker that way," chuckled Dick. "He's alive."

"Have you seen him?" demanded the news editor.

"No; and I'm not going to say too much now, either," returned Dick, with unusual stubbornness. "But 'The Blade' wants to take the keynote that Theodore Dodge is alive, and will turn up. I believe Dave and I are going to make him turn up during the next spell of daylight."

"We surely are!" laughed Darrin.

Mr. Bradley pressed them close with questions, but neither boy was inclined to reveal the secret of the trail along the railway roadbed.

"We're going to keep it all as our own scoop," Dick insisted. "And please, Mr. Bradley, don't post the police about our idea. If you do, the police will get the credit. If we keep quiet, 'The Blade' will get all the credit that is coming."

The news editor laid before Dick all the proofs and copy that had been prepared so far on the absorbing mystery of the night. Prescott made some newsy additions to the story, and through it all took the confident keynote that the vanished banker would soon be heard from in the flesh.

The work done, and Bradley having already seen to the return of the horse to the livery stable, Dick and Dave went into an unused room, where they threw themselves down on piles of old papers. Tired out, they slept without stirring. But they had left a note for the office boy who was due at six o'clock to sweep out the business office.

That office boy came in and called the High School pair at a few minutes after six. Dick's first thought was to instruct the boy to telephone the Prescott and Darrin homes at seven in the morning, sending word that the two boys were safe but busy. Then Dick hastily led the way to a quick-order restaurant near by. Here the boys got through with breakfast as quickly as they could. That done, they bought sandwiches, which they put into their pockets.

As they came out of the eating house the streets were still far from crowded. Laborers were going to their toil, but it was yet too early for the business men of the city to be on their way to offices, or clerks to the stores.

"Now, let's get out of the town in a jiffy," proposed Dick. "We don't want to have many folks observing which way we go. We'll travel fast right up along the railway track."

Once started, the two boys kept going briskly. Both had been drowsy at the outset, but the impulse of discovery had them in its grip now, and fatigue was quickly forgotten.

Something more than half an hour after the start the boys halted beside the tie that Prescott had whittled in the dark a few hours before.

"There are the footprints," quivered Dave, staring hard.

"They're not as distinct as they were a few hours ago," replied Dick. "Still, I think we can follow them. I'm glad they lead toward the woods."

"Yes," Darrin agreed. "The direction of the footprints shows that Mr. Dodge and his companions didn't have any notion of boarding a train and getting out of this part of the world."

Yet, though both of these young newspaper hounds were keen to follow the trail, they did not find it any easy matter. Dick and Dave reached the edge of the woods. Then, for a short time, they were obliged to explore carefully ere they came again upon one of the bootmarks of fastidious Banker Dodge. It was a hundred feet further on, in a bit of soft mould, that the next bootprint was found. Had these two High School boys been more expert trackers they would have found a fairly continuous trail, but their untrained eyes lacked the ability to see other signs that would have been evident to a plainsman.

So their progress was slow, indeed. They could judge only by the direction in which each last footprint was pointed, and they had to remember that one wandering through the woods might travel over a course whose direction frequently changed.

"Dave," whispered Prescott, "I think we had better separate a little. We might go along about a hundred feet apart. In that way there is more chance that we'll come sooner upon the next print."

There were perhaps six hundred feet into the woods, by this time, and stood looking down at the fifth footmark they had found.

"All right," nodded Darrin. "We're a pair of rank amateurs at this kind of work, anyway."

"Amateurs or not," murmured Dick, with a smile? "we seem to be the only folks in Gridley who are on the right track in this mystery at present."

"I'm full of misgivings, anyway," muttered Dave.

"Why?"

"I can't help feeling that we should have turned our news over to Chief Coy or Hemingway.

"Again, why?"

"Well, if we lose our man now, we'll soon feel that we ought to have turned the whole thing over to the police while the trail was fresh."

"Dave, don't you know, well enough, that newspapers do more than the police, nowadays, in clearing up mysteries?"

"This may be more than a mystery," hinted Dave. "Even if we get through to the end of this trail—or mystery we may find a crime at that end."

"All the more need, then, for moving on fast. See here, Dave, I'll follow just the way this footprint points. You get out a hundred feet or so to the right. And we'll move as fast as we can, now."

The wisdom of this plan was soon apparent, for it was Dave Darrin who discovered the next footprint. He summoned Dick Prescott with a sharp hiss.

"Yes; all right," nodded Dick, joining his comrade and gazing down at one of the narrow bootmarks. "But don't send a long signal again, Dave. We might be close, and warn some one out of our way."

"What shall we do, then?"

"We'll look frequently at each other, and the fellow who discovers anything will make signs to the other."

Three minutes later Dick Prescott crouched low behind a line of bushes, his eyes glistening as he peered and listened. Then he began to make wildly energetic signals to Dave Darrin.

The head partner of Dick & Co. had fallen upon something that interested him—tremendously!

IV. THE "SOREHEADS" IN CONCLAVE

Dave Darrin came stealing over, as soft-footed as any panther.

Dick did not turn around to look at his chum. He merely held up a cautioning hand, and Darrin moved even more stealthily.

In another moment Dave's head was close to his chum's, and both young men were gazing upon the same scene.

"Davis and Fremont——" whispered Darrin in his chum's ear.

"Bayliss, Porter and Drayne," Dick nodded back, softly.

"Trenhold, Grayson, Hudson," continued Darrin.

"All the 'soreheads,'" finished Dick Prescott for him.

"Or nearly all," supplemented Dave.

Indeed, the scene upon which these two High School boys gazed was one that greatly interested them.

On a little knoll, just beyond the line of bushes, and on lower ground, fully a dozen young men lounged, basking in the morning sun, which poured through upon this small, treeless space.

Though the young men down in the knoll were not carefully attired, there was a general similarity in their dress. All wore sweaters, and nearly all of them wore cross-country shoes. Evidently the whole party had been out for a cross country run.

Now, the dozen or so were eagerly engaged in conversation.

"It's too bad Purcell won't join us," remarked Davis.

"Yes," nodded another fellow in the group; "he belongs with us."

"Oh, well," spoke up Bayliss, "if Purcell would rather be with the muckers, let him."

"Now, let's not be too rank, fellows," objected Hudson slowly. "I wouldn't call all the fellows muckers who don't happen to belong in our crowd."

"What would you call 'em then?" growled Bayliss angrily. "Time was when only the fellows of the better families expected to go to High School, on their way to college. Now, every day-laborer's son seems to think he ought to go to High School——"

"And be received with open arms, on a footing of equality," sneered Porter.

"It's becoming disgusting," muttered Bayliss. "Not only do these cheap fellows expect to go to the High School, but they actually want to run the school affairs."

"I suppose that's natural, to some extent," speculated Porter.

"Why?" demanded Bayliss, turning upon the last speaker in amazement.

"Why, the sons of the poorer families are in a majority, nowadays," returned Hudson.

"Say, you're getting almost as bad as Purcell," warned Porter.

"If I am, I apologize, of course," responded Hudson.

"I've no real objection to the sons of poorer men coming to the High School," vouchsafed Paulson, meditatively. "But you know the cream, the finer class of the High School student body, has always centered in the school's athletic teams. And now——"

"Yes; and now——" broke in Bayliss harshly.

"Why, these fellows, who are not much more than tolerated in the High School, or ought not to be, make the most noise at the meets of the training squads," continued Paulson.

"And some of 'em," growled Fremont, "actually have the cheek to carry off honors in scholarship, too. Take Dick Prescott, for instance."

"Oh, let the muckers have the scholarship honors, if that's all they want," retorted Bayliss "A gentleman hasn't much need of scholarship, anyway, if he's an all-around, proper fellow in every other respect. But the, gang that call themselves Dick & Co. are a fair sample of the muckers that we have to contend with."

"No," objected Fremont; "they're the very worst of the lot in the High School. Why, look at the advertising those fellows get for themselves. And not one of them of good family."

"Fellows of good, prominent families don't have to advertise themselves," observed Bayliss sagely.

It was plain that by "good" family was meant one of wealth. These young men had little else in the way of a standard.

"It makes me cranky," observed Whitney, "to see the way a lot of the girls seem to notice just such fellows as Prescott, Darrin, Reade, Dalzell—fellows who, by rights, ought to be through with their schooling and earning wages as respectful grocery clerks or decent shoe salesmen."

"But this talk isn't carrying us anywhere," objected Bayliss. "The question is, what are we going to do with the football problem this year? We don't want to play in the same eleven with the cheap muckers, and have 'em think they're the whole eleven. The call for the football training squad is due to go up some time next week."

"Bert Dodge says——" interrupted Paulson.

"Yes, Dodge is the fellow I wish we had here with us today," interposed Bayliss. "Dodge is the one we ought to listen to."

"Poor Dodge has his own troubles today," murmured Hudson.

"Yes; I know—poor fellow," nodded Bayliss. "I wish we fellows could help him, but we can't."

"I was talking with Dodge yesterday, before his own troubles broke loose," went on Hudson. "Dodge's idea is that we ought all to keep away when the football squad is called. Then Coach Morton may get an idea of how things are going, and he may see just what he ought to do."

"But suppose the muckers all answer the call in force?" inquired Trenholm. "What are we to do then?"

"We're to keep out of the squad this year," responded Bayliss promptly. "See here, either we fellows organize the Gridley High School eleven ourselves, and decide who shall play in it, or else we stay out and let the muckers go ahead and pile up a record of lost games this year."

"That's hard on good old Gridley High School," murmured Hudson.

"True," agreed Fremont. "But it'll teach the town, the school authorities, the coach and after this year, that only the prominent fellows in the school should have any voice in athletics. Let the muckers be content with standing behind the side lines and rooting for the real High School crowd."

"Shall we put it to a vote?" asked Bayliss, looking about him.

"Yes!" answered several promptly.

"Then, as I understand it," continued Bayliss, "when the football call goes up, we're all to ignore it. We're to continue to ignore the call, and keep out of the school football squad this year, unless the coach and the Athletics Committee agree that we shall have the naming of the candidates. Is that the general agreement among ourselves?"

"Yes!" came the chorus.

"Any contrary votes?"

Momentary silence reigned in this conclave of "soreheads."

"Yet," continued Bayliss, "we've started training among ourselves. This morning's cross-country is part of our daily training. If we have to refuse the football call, and stay out of the squad, are we to drop our present training?"

"Hardly, I should say," responded Fremont. "I have something to suggest in that line. If we can't go into what is really a gentleman's eleven under the High School colors, I propose that we organize an eleven of our own, and call ourselves simply the Gridley Football Club. We can bring out an eleven that would put things all over any school team that the muckers could organize without our help."

"We wouldn't play the muckers, would we?" demanded Trenholm.

"Certainly not!" retorted Bayliss, with contemptuous emphasis.

"We won't even know that a mucker High School team is on earth," laughed Porter.

"I think we understand the plan well enough, now, don't we?" inquired Blaisdell, rising.

"We do," nodded Porter. "And we'll all do our full share toward bringing control of High School affairs back to the aristocratic leadership that it once had."

"Hoist our banners, and let them proclaim: 'Down with the muckers!'" laughed Hudson, rolling up the hem of his sweater.

"We want a good, not too fast but steady jog back to town," announced Bayliss.

At the first sign that the "soreheads" were preparing to leave the spot Dick had taken advantage of their noise to slip away. Dave had followed him successfully.

Then, from another hiding place these two prowling juniors, grinning, watched the "soreheads" move away at a loping run.

"We certainly know all we need to about that crowd," muttered Dick, a half-vengeful look in his eyes. "The snobs!"

"Oh, they're cads, all right," assented Dave. "Yet that bunch of fellows contains some of the material that is needed in putting forth the best High School team this year!"

"Humph!" commented Dave disgustedly. "Yet, Dick, I was almost surprised that you would stop and listen, without letting the fellows know you were there."

"It does seem sneaky, at first thought," Prescott admitted, almost shamefacedly.

"Hold on there!" ordered Dave. "I don't believe you'd do a thing like that, Dick Prescott, unless you had an honorable reason for it."

"I did it because the honor of the High School is so precious to me—to us all," Dick replied. "We want to put forth a winning team, as Gridley High School has always done. Now, these 'soreheads' aim to defeat that by keeping a few of the best players off the eleven. I listened, Dave, because I wanted to know what the trouble was, and just who was making it. Now, I guess I know how to deal with the 'sore-heads.' I'll make them ashamed of themselves."

"How?"

"One thing at a time, Dave. In our excitement we've almost forgotten that we started out to find Theodore Dodge and clear up the mystery of his disappearance."

V. AT THE END OF THE TRAIL

"The further we go the more mysterious this becomes," mused Dick, as he and Darrin stood together over a clump of faintly-marked footprints, a quarter of an hour later.

"How does the mystery increase?" Darrin inquired.

"For one thing, we don't always find the bootmarks of the men who were with Mr. Dodge. Yet once in a while we do. There are the prints of all three. When Theodore Dodge passed by this way the other two men were with him, or had him in sight. And our course shows that the three were plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. But come along. There must be an end to this, somewhere."

Ten minutes later Prescott and Darrin felt that they had come to the end of the mystery. For the faint trail had led them up a slight, stony slope, and now the two boys lay flat on the ground.

Below them, in a bush-clad hollow, two miles from the world in general, stood a little, old, ramshackle shanty. The location was one that seekers would hardly have found without a trail to lead them to it.

To the door of this shanty a broad-shouldered, rough-looking and powerful fellow of forty had just come. The man, who was poorly clad, wore brogans, and held in his right hand a weighty, ugly-looking club. The fellow was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, and now stood,

with his left hand shading his eyes, peering off at the surrounding landscape.

Dick and Dave hugged the ground more closely behind their screen of bushes.

"It's all right, Bill," announced the lookout in the doorway.

"'Course this," growled a voice from the inside. "Too far from the main line o' travel for anyone to be spying around. Besides, no one guesses——"

"Well, you can go to sleep if ye wanter, Bill. I'm goin' ter sit up and smoke."

With that the brogan-shod man disappeared inside the shanty. Dick and Dave glanced at each other with eager interest.

"I wonder whether they have Mr. Dodge in there with them?" breathed Dick, in his ear.

"If Mr. Dodge is in there he's keeping amazingly quiet," Darrin responded doubtingly.

"Within a very few minutes," Prescott rejoined, "I'm going to know whether Mr. Dodge is in that shanty."

"We found his footprint close enough near here," argued Dave.

"Yes, and I feel sure enough that Mr. Dodge is there. But why don't we hear something from him? The whole business is so uncanny that it gives one that creepy feeling."

For a full quarter of an hour the two chums remained hidden, barely stirring. From the shanty, at first, came crooning tones, as though the man in brogans were humming over old songs to himself. Occasionally there was a snore; evidently Bill was drowsing the day away.

"Now, I'm going down there," whispered Dick.

"Look out the big fellow doesn't catch you," warned Darrin. "I've an idea he'd beat you to a pulp if he caught you."

"I'm not as big as he is," admitted Dick, grinning, "but I think I might prove as fast as he on my feet."

As Prescott started to steal down into the hollow Dave reached about him, gathering all the fair-sized stones within reach.

"If Dick has to come from there on the rim," soliloquized Darrin, "a few stones hurled at the face of that ugly-looking customer might hold him back for a while. And I used to be called a pretty fair pitcher!"

Prescott, in the meantime, was stealing around the shanty, applying his eyes to some tiny cracks.

At last he turned, making straight and cautiously up the slope.

As he came near, Dick sent Dave a signal that made that latter youth throb with expectancy.

"Yes! We've found Theodore Dodge!" whispered young Prescott eagerly. "He's in there, lying on the floor, bound and gagged."

"Whew! And what is Mr. Brogans doing?"

"Sitting on the floors smoking and playing solitaire with a dirty pack of cards. The other rascal, Bill, is sleeping at a great rate."

"What are we going to do now?"

"Dave, are you willing to stay here, hiding and keeping watch on the place?"

"Surely," nodded Darrin, with great promptness.

"If the wretches should try to take Mr. Dodge away from here——"

"I'll follow 'em, of course."

"And leave a paper trail," nodded Dick.

"Here is all the paper I have in my pockets," he added.

"I have some, too," muttered Dave.

"I'll be back as speedily as I can get help."

"You ought not to be gone more than an hour."

"Not as long as that, I hope. Goodbye, Dave, and look out for yourself."

After going the first hundred yards Dick Prescott let himself out into a loping run, very much like that used by the "soreheads" in getting back to town. With a trained runner the cross-country style of running is suited for getting over long distances at fair speed.

Twenty minutes later young Prescott reached a farm house in which there was a telephone. He asked permission to use the instrument.

"Go right in the parlor, and help yourself," replied the farmer's wife.

As Dick rang on, and stood waiting, transmitter at his ear, he first thought of calling for the police station.

"No, I won't, either," he muttered. "This belongs to my paper. Let them tip off the police. Hello! Give me 'The Blade' office, Gridley, please."

Dick waited patiently a few moments. Then:

"Hullo! 'The Blade?' This is Prescott. Is Mr. Pollock there? He is? Good! Tell him I want to speak with him."

Then Mr. Pollock's voice sounded over the wire.

"Hullo, Prescott! Why aren't you on hand, with that big Dodge story hanging over our heads? Why, it brought me down hours before fore my time."

"Pollock, I've found Dodge," replied Dick Composedly. "At least, Darrin and I——"

"What's that!" broke in the editor's excited voice. "You've found Dodge? Alive?"

As rapidly as he could young Prescott told the story. Mr. Pollock listened gladly.

"Now, where are you, Prescott?"

Dick told Mr. Pollock the name of the farmer from whose home he was telephoning.

"Just you wait there, Prescott. And, oh!—pshaw! I came near forgetting to tell you the biggest news of all—for you. Mrs. Dodge this morning offered a thousand dollars' reward for the finding of her husband, dead or alive. You'll get that reward—you and Darrin! But I've no more time to talk. Stay right where you are until I reach you."

Nor was it long before Dick, pacing by the farmyard gate, saw an automobile approaching at a lively clip. In it were the chauffeur and Editor Pollock.

The latter waved his hand wildly when he caught sight If his High School reporter.

Right begged this automobile sped another, in which sat Chief Coy, Officer Hemingway and a uniformed policeman, in addition to the chauffeur.

"We didn't lose much time, did we?" hailed Mr. Pollock, as the first auto slowed up "Jump in, quick! Show us the way."

"I suppose there's some excitement down in Gridley, about this time?" laughed Dick, as the two autos raced along once more.

"Not a bit," replied the editor. "And for the very simple reason that no one knows that Dodge has been found."

"His family know it, of course?" queried Dick.

"No; not a word. Chief Coy kept it quiet, and asked me to do the same. He didn't want the Dodge family all stirred up by false hopes in case you had made a mistake. The silence will keep 'The Evening Mail' from learning the news for a while. And I've had our forms left standing. We're all ready to run out an extra —in case you haven't made a mistake, Prescott," added Mr. Pollock quizzically.

Dick smiled resignedly at this implied doubt. But the autos were making fast time, and soon the machines had gone as far on the way as they could be used.

"Now we'll have to get out and strike across country, through the woods," Prescott called.

So far Dick had resolutely tried to keep out of his mind any thought of that thousand-dollar reward. It sounded too much like "Blood money" to take pay for helping any afflicted family out of its troubles. Besides, it had been the glory of doing a piece of bright newspaper work that had allured the two High School boys at the outset.

"Yet a thousand dollars is—a thousand dollars!" Dick couldn't help feeling, wistfully, as he piloted his party across fields and through the woods. "A thousand dollars! Five hundred apiece for Dave and me! What a fearful big lot of money! What we could do with it, If we had it! I wonder whether it would be right and decent to take it?"

Then, as he neared the place where he had left his chum on post Dick Prescott found other and anxious thoughts crowding into his mind.

Was Dave Darrin, staunch and reliable Dave—still there, on post, and unharmed?

Was Theodore Dodge there? Were his captors still with him?

VI. THE SMALL SOUL OF A GENTLEMAN

A few minutes later all fears and doubts were dispelled.

Dave Darrin rose to greet the newcomers informing them, in a whisper, that all was still well in the old shanty below.

He of the brogans and club heard a slight noise outside. Swiftly he rose and darted to the door, ready to pounce.

But he beheld the policemen, with the newspaper trio just behind them. More, Chief Coy and his subordinates had their revolvers drawn.

"Howdy, gents?" was Mr. Brogans' greeting as he dropped his club and tried to grin.

"Take care of him, Hemingway," directed Thief Coy, briefly.

"Me?" demanded Brogans, in feigned astonishment. "What have I done?"

The noise roused Bill, who sprang up. But Bill must have found the police wonderfully soothing, for he quieted down at once.

Both rascals were taken care of. Then Theodore Dodge was found lying bound and gagged on the floor. A ragged, foul-smelling coat had been substituted for the one that had been left at the river's bank. The banker looked up at the intruders with a stupefied leer, betraying neither alarm or pleasure.

As soon as the two rough-looking fellows had been handcuffed Mr. Dodge was freed, and his tongue also, but Chief Coy, after raising the banker and questioning him, muttered:

"Clean out of his head. Daffy. Must have wandered away from Gridley during a loony streak. He isn't over it yet."

The two rough-looking ones protested loudly against being deprived of their liberty.

"I don't really know that you fellows have done anything," admitted Chief Coy. "But I'm taking you along on suspicion that it was you, and not Mr. Dodge himself, who bound and gagged him."

This retort, given with a great deal of dry sarcasm, silenced the prisoners for the time being.

"We ought to have this out an hour before 'The Evening Mail' people," exulted Editor Pollock. "Prescott, my boy, you're a born reporter! And, Darrin, you're not much behind." "Theodore Dodge found by two "Blade" reporters! That won't sound bad!"

The briefest questioning was enough to show that Theodore Dodge was in no condition to give any account of himself. He did not reply with an intelligible word. His eyes held only a vacant stare. It was as though memory and reason had suddenly snapped within his brain.

"The doctors will want him," commented Chief Coy. "And we can't be hustling back a bit too soon."

It had been a gloomy morning at the home of Banker Dodge.

Through the night, none had slept. Anxiety had kept them all on the rack.

Mrs. Dodge, a thin and nervous woman, had gone from one spell of hysterics into another, as morning neared. A trained nurse had to be sent for.

Then in a calm lull Mrs. Dodge had telephoned for Lawyer Ripley, who lost his breakfast through the speed with which he obeyed the summons of the distracted wife.

As a result of the lawyer's visit the reward of a thousand dollars had been offered.

The house was quiet again. Dr. Bentley, having been called for the third time, had administered an opiate, and Mrs. Dodge was sleeping. The other members of the family tip-toed restlessly about.

Bert Dodge felt in a peculiarly "mean" frame of mind that morning. The young man simply could not remain in one spot. The more he had thought, through and through the night, the more he had become convinced that his father had killed himself because of some entanglement in the bank's affairs.

"And I'll be pointed out as the defaulter's son," thought Bert bitterly. "Oh, why couldn't the guv'nor think of some one besides himself! We'll have to move away from Gridley, of course. But the disgrace will follow us anywhere we may go. Oh, it's awful—awful! Of course, I'm not in any way to blame. But, oh! What a disgrace!"

It was well along in the forenoon when Bayliss, returning homeward in sweater and running togs, espied Bert's white, wan face near the front door. Bayliss signaled cordially to young Dodge, who, glad of this kindliness at such a time, went down the walk to the gate.

"No news of your father yet, I suppose?" asked Bayliss.

"No," sighed Bert.

"Too bad, old fellow!"

"Yes; the uncertainty is pretty tough on us all," Dodge replied.

"Oh, you'll hear before the day is out, and the news will be all right, too," declared Bayliss, with well-meant cheeriness. "Then you'll be with us on the morning cross-countries again. We missed you a whole lot this morning, Bert."

"Did you?" asked young Dodge, brightening.

"Yes; and, by the way, we've decided on our course—for our set, you know. We're going to ignore the football call next week. If Coach Morton asks us any questions, then we'll let him know how the land lies. We won't try to make the High School team if the muckers are allowed the same show. We'll have a select crowd on the eleven, this year, or else all of our set will stay off."

"The muckers have some good football men among them, too," grumbled Bert. "Of course for that gang that call themselves Dick & Co we can't any more than make guesses. But some of them would be handy on an eleven I guess."

"Yes; if they were not muckers," agreed Bayliss loftily. "But there are enough of our own kind to make as good an eleven as Gridley High School ever had."

"It's a pity we can't get up our own eleven play the muckers, just once, and beat them out for the right to represent Gridley."

"It wouldn't be so bad an idea. But they might beat us," retorted Bayliss dryly. "So, on the whole, our fellows have decided not to pay any heed whatever to Dick & Co. or any of the other muckers. After this the line must be drawn, at High School, between the gentlemen and the other kind."

"All plans looking in that direction will have my hearty support," pledged Bert Dodge.

"I know it, old fellow."

"It's queer that the question never came up before about the muckers," Bert mused.

"We never had Dick & Co. in school athletics, until last year," replied Bayliss significantly.

"That fellow, Prescott, is about the worst——"

Bert Dodge stopped right there. Bayliss, too, started and turned. Around the nearest corner some folks were making a big noise. Then around the corner came two autos, while a crowd raced along on the sidewalks.

"Hurrah! Mr. Dodge is found. Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin found him!" shouted a score of urchins in the crowd.

Bert and Bayliss both gasped. Then the autos slowed up at the curb before the gate. The police prisoners were still in the second car.

Bert took a look, recognized his father, despite the strange look in that parent's face.

"Help them bring my father in, Bayliss!" called young Dodge. "I'll run to prepare the folks."

In another moment there was a turmoil of excitement inside the Dodge house. While the excitement was still going on Bert came out to inform the crowd that both his father and mother needed quiet and medical attendance. Bert begged the crowd to go away quietly.

Dick and Dave were standing before the gateway way while Editor Pollock answered some of the queries of the crowd.

"Great luck for you fellows, Prescott and Barren!" called some one in the crowd. "You two will know what to do with a thousand dollars' reward!"

Bert Dodge wheeled about like a flash, and facing Dave and Dick, shouted:

"If that's what you two fellows are hanging around here for, you'd better clear out! Take it from me that you fellows will get no thousand dollars, or ten cents, out of our family!"

VII. THE FOOTBALL NOTICE GOES UP

Mr. Pollock, usually a very calm man, wheeled upon young Dodge.

"My lad, when you find out what Prescott and Darrin have done in the way of rescuing your father, you'll feel wholly ashamed of yourself. I don't believe either young man has given a second thought to the reward."

People in a crowd take sides quickly. Bert heard several muttered remarks from the bystanders that made him flush. Then, choking and angry, he turned and darted for the house.

By this time Mr. Pollock, Dick and Dave were speeding for "The Blade" office.

Already a run had started on the Second National Bank. A crowd filled the counting room and extended out onto the sidewalk. Their depositors, largely small business men and people who ran private check accounts, were frightfully nervous about their money.

Up to noon the bank paid all demands, though the accounts were adjusted slowly, while the crowd grew in numbers outside. At noon the Second National availed itself of its privilege of closing its doors promptly at that hour on Saturday.

Dick Prescott wrote with furious speed at "The Blade" office. In another room Mr. Pollock wrote from the facts supplied by Dave Darrin. In half an hour from the time these three entered the office the "Extra" was out on the street—fifteen minutes ahead of "The Mail," which latter newspaper contained very little beyond the fact that Mr. Dodge had been found, and that he was now under the care of his family. "The Mail" stated that the discovery had been made by "two High School boys" aiding the police, and did not name either Dick or Dave.

On Monday the bank examiner arrived. He made a quick inspection of the bank's affairs, and pronounced the institution "sound." The run on the bank stopped, and timid depositors began to bring back their money. The members of the Dodge family could once more hold up their heads.

In the meantime Dr. Bentley had called in a specialist. Together the two medical men decided that Theodore Dodge had suffered only from an extreme amount of overwork; that the strain had momentarily unbalanced his mind, and had made the deranged man contemplate drowning himself.

By means of a modified form of the "third degree" Chief Coy, by this time, had succeeded in making the two vagrants confess that they had found Mr. Dodge, with his coat and hat off standing by the bank of the stream. Guessing the banker's condition, and learning his identity, the two men, though they did not confess on this point, had evidently coaxed the banker away to their shanty away off in the heart of the woods. Undoubtedly it had been their plan to keep the banker under their own eyes, with a view of extorting a reward from the missing man's family. The judge of the local court finally decided to send both men away for six months on a charge of vagrancy.

And here the matter seemed to end. Though Lawyer Ripley urged the prompt payment of the offered reward to Prescott and Darrin, Mrs. Dodge, influenced by her son, demurred. At Mr. Pollock's suggestion Dick and Dave promptly drew up and signed a paper releasing the Dodge family from any claim. This paper was also signed by the fathers of the two boys, and forwarded to Lawyer Ripley. That gentleman man returned the paper to Dick, with a statement that he might have something to communicate at a later date.

Tuesday morning, with many secret misgivings, Coach Morton, who was also one of the submasters of the High School, posted the call for the football squad. The call was for three o'clock Thursday afternoon, at the gym.

"Humph!" was the audible and only comment of Bayliss, as he stood before the school bulletin board at recess and read the announcement.

"I guess the day for football here has gone by," observed Porter sneeringly.

"Of interest to ragamuffins only," sneered Paulson, as he turned away to join Fremont of the senior class.

"Listen to the wild enthusiasm over upholding the school's honor in athletics," muttered Dave, scowling darkly.

"We knew it was coming," declared Tom Reade.

Abner Cantwell was still principal at Gridley High School, though that violent-tempered and unpopular pedagogue had been engaged, this year, only as "substitute" principal. There were rumors that Dr. Thornton, the former and much-loved principal, would soon be in sufficiently good health to return. So the Board of Education had left the way clear for dropping Mr. Cantwell at any moment that it might see fit.

Dick & Co. had gathered by themselves on this Tuesday, at recess. They did not discuss the football call, nor its reception by the "soreheads," for they had known what was coming. Just before recess was over, however, there were sudden sounds of a riot around the bulletin board.

"Tear that down!"

"Throw 'em out!"

"Raus mit!"

"The mean cheats!"

There was a surging rush of High School boys for the bulletin board.

Bayliss and Fremont, both of the senior class, who had just posted a new notice, were now trying to push their way through an angry crowd of youngsters that had collected.

"They're no good!"

"A disgrace to the school!"

"Send 'em to Coventry!"

"No! Handle 'em right now!"

There was another rush.

"Get back, you hoodlums!" yelled Bayliss, his face violet with rage.

"I'll crack the head of any fellow that lays hands on me!" stormed Fremont.

"Oh, will he? Come on, then, fellows!"

Fremont was caught up as though by a cyclone. Two or three fellows seized him at a time, passing him down the corridor. The last to receive the hapless Fremont propelled him through the main doorway of the school building. Nor was this done with any gentle force, either.

Bayliss, not attempting to fight, was simply hustled along on his feet.

Out of one of the rooms near by rushed Mr. Cantwell, the principal—or "Prin." as he was known, his face white with the anger that he felt over what he regarded as a most unseemly disturbance.

"Stop this riot, young gentlemen!" commanded the principal sternly.

"Send in the riot call, like you did last year!" piped up a disguised, thin, falsetto voice from the outskirts of the rapidly growing crowd. Quite a lot of the girls had gathered, too, by this time.

The principal turned around, sharply, as some of the girls began to giggle. But Mr. Cantwell was unable to detect the one who had thus taunted him.

Coach Morton peered over the railing of the floor above.

"Mr. Morton!" called the principal.

"Yes, sir."

"Sound the assembling gong, if you please."

Clang! clang! clang!

The din of the gong cut their recess four minutes short, but not one of the excited High School boys regretted it. They had had a chance to express themselves, and now fell in, filing down to the locker rooms, then up the stairs once more to the assembly room. Bayliss and Fremont came in, joining the others. They were white-faced, but strove to carry their heads very high.

The sounding of the gong had stopped the circulating of the paper that had been so angrily torn down from the bulletin board. It was in Dick Prescott's hands now.

The notice had announced the formation of a "select" party for a straw ride for the young men and young women of the junior and senior classes on Thursday afternoon, starting at two-thirty o'clock. Invitations would be issued by the committee, after requests for tickets had been passed upon by that committee. Bayliss, Fremont and Paulson signed the notice of the straw ride.

This was the means by which the "soreheads" chose to announce that they would ignore the football squad call for Thursday.

Wisely, for once, the principal did not choose to question the young men regarding the excitement attending the close of recess. Studies and recitations went on as usual.

But feeling ran high. The "soreheads" and their sympathizers were known, by this time, to all the other young men of the student body. During the rest of the day's session many a "sorehead" found himself being regarded with black or sneering looks.

Of course the self-elected "exclusive" set was not numerously represented in the High School. Most of the boys and girls did not come from well-to-do families. Some who did had refused to have anything to do with the "sorehead" crowd.

The instant that school was dismissed that Tuesday afternoon scores of the more boisterous boys rushed from the building, across the yard, and double-lined the sidewalk leading from the gateway.

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!" they groaned, whenever any of the "soreheads" tried to walk this gauntlet in dignified silence.

"Let's keep out of that, fellows," advised Dick, to his chums, who grouped themselves about him. "Groans and catcalls won't smooth or soothe any hard-feelings."

"I don't blame any of the fellows for what they're doing to the snobs," blazed Dan Dalzell indignantly.

"I don't say that I do, either," Dick replied quietly. "But there may be better ways of teaching fellows that they should stand by their school at all times."

"I'd like to know a better way, then," flared Tom Reade.

"Let's have it, instanter, Dick, if you've got one," begged Greg Holmes.

"Yes; out with it, old chap," begged Harry Hazelton.

But Dick Prescott smiled provokingly.

"Perhaps, with the help of some of the rest of you," he replied, "I shall be able to find a way of cooling some hot heads. I hope so, anyway."

"Dick has his plan all fixed, now," Dan whispered, hopefully, to Tom.

"If he has," quoth Reade, under his breath, I wish he'd tell us his scheme."

"Humph!" retorted Dan. "You know Dick Prescott, and you know that he never shoots until he has taken time to aim."

VIII. DICK FIRES BOTH BARRELS

"Oh—great Scott!" gasped Tom Reade, as he paused at an item in "The Blade" the following morning.

That item had been written by Prescott. There could be no doubt about it in Reade's mind.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom's father.

"Oh, Dick has been paying his respects to a certain clique in the High School, I take it," Tom replied, with a grin. "I heard, yesterday, that he was going to shoot into that crowd. But—and here's a short editorial on the same subject, too. Wow! Dick has fired into the enemy with both barrels!"

A moment later Tom passed the paper over to his father. Dick's article read:

There is a possibility that Gridley High School will not be in the front ranks in football this year. Those who know state that a "sorehead" combination has been formed by the young male representatives of some of our wealthier families. These young men, having elected themselves, so it is said, the salt of the earth, or the cream of a new Gridley aristocracy, are going to refuse to play in the football eleven this year.

Even young men who belong to "prominent" families may have some gifts in the way of football ability. Three or four out of the dozen or more "soreheads" are really needed if Gridley High School is to maintain its standing this year. The remainder of the "soreheads" may, with advantage to the High School eleven, be excused from offering themselves.

The "soreheads," it is stated, feel that it would be beneath the dignity of their families for them to play on an eleven which must, in any event, be recruited largely from the sons of the Gridley families less fortunately situated financially.

Strangely enough, though they don't intend to play football this year, these "soreheads" have been training hard of late, one of their practices being the taking of an early morning cross-country run together.

The average young man at the High School is as eager as ever to uphold the town's and the school's honor and dignity on the football gridiron this year. Whether the so-called "soreheads" will reconsider their proposed course of action and throw themselves in with the common lot for the upholding of the Gridley name and the honor of the High School will have been determined within the next few days. It is possible, however, that this little coterie of self-appointed "exclusives" will continue to refuse to cast their lot with the commoner run of High School boys, to whom some of the "soreheads" have referred as "muckers." A Gridley "mucker," it may be stated in passing, is a Gridley boy of poor parents who desires to obtain a decent education and better himself in life.

"Is that article true?" demanded Tom Reade's father.

"Yes, sir," Tom responded. "Dick wouldn't have written it, if it hadn't been. But turn over to the editorial column, and see that other little bit."

The editorial in question referred to the news printed in another column, and stated that this information, if correct, showed a state of affairs at the High School that needed bettering. The editor continued:

If there are in the High School any young snobs who display such a mean and un-American spirit, then the thoughtful reader must conclude that these young men are being unjustly educated at the public expense, for such boys are certain to grow into men who will turn nothing of value back into the community. Such young men, if they really need to study, should be educated at the expense of their families. Both the High School and the community can easily dispense with the presence of snobs and snobbery.

"I guess there'll be some real soreness in some heads this morning," laughed Tom's father.

"Won't there!" ejaculated Tom, and hurried out into the street. It did not take him long to find some of his chums and other High School boys. Those who had not seen "The Blade" read the two marked portions eagerly.

Bert Dodge had "The Blade" placed before him by his sister. Bert read with reddening cheeks.

"That's what comes of letting a fellow like Dick Prescott write for the papers," Bert stormed angrily. "That fellow ought to be tarred and feathered!"

"Why don't you suggest it to the 'soreheads'?" asked his sister, quizzically. Grace Dodge was an amiable, democratic, capable girl who had gone through college with honors, and yet had not gained a false impression of the importance conferred by a little wealth.

"Grace, I believe you're laughing at me!" dared the young man exasperatedly.

"No; I'm not laughing. I'm sorry," sighed the young woman. "But I can imagine that a good many are laughing, this morning, and that the number will grow. Bert, dear, do you think any young man can hope to be very highly esteemed when he sets his own importance above the good name and success of his school?"

Bert did not answer, but quit the house moodily. He encountered some of "his own set," but they were not a very cheerful-looking lot that morning. Not one of the "soreheads" could escape the conviction that Dick Prescott held the whip hand of public opinion over them. What none of them appreciated, was the moderation with which young Prescott had wielded his weapon.

Dodge, Bayliss, Paulson and Hudson entered the High School grounds together, that morning, ten minutes before opening time. As the quartette passed, several of the little groups of fellow students ceased their talk and turned away from the four "soreheads." Then, after the quartette had passed, quiet little laughs were heard.

All four mounted the steps of the building with heightening color.

Before the door, talking together, stood Fred Ripley and Purcell, whom the "soreheads" had endeavored to enlist.

"Good morning, Purcell. Morning, Ripley," greeted Bayliss.

Fred and Purcell wheeled about, turning their backs without answering.

Once inside the building the four young fellows looked at each other uneasily.

"Are the fellows trying to send us to coventry?" demanded Dodge.

"Oh, well," muttered Bayliss, "there are enough of us. We can stand it!"

Yet, at recess, the "soreheads" found themselves extremely uncomfortable. None of their fellow-students, among the boys, would notice them. Whenever some of the "soreheads" passed a knot of other boys, low-toned laughs followed. Even many of the girls, it proved, had taken up with the Coventry idea.

"Fellows, come to my place after you've had your luncheons," Bayliss whispered around among his cronies, after school was out for the day. "I—I guess there are a—a few things that we want to talk over among ourselves. So come over, and we'll use the carriage house for a meeting place. Maybe we'll organize a club among ourselves, or—or—do something that shall shut us out and away from the common herd of this school."

When the dozen or more met in the Bayliss carriage house that afternoon there were some defiant looks, and some anxious ones.

"I don't know how you fellows feel about this business," began Hudson frankly. "But I've had a pretty hot grilling at home by Dad. He asked me if I belonged to the 'sorehead' gang. I answered as evasively as I could. Then dad brought his list down on the table and told me he prayed that I wouldn't go through life with any false notions about my personal dimensions. He told me, rather explosively, that I would never be a bit bigger, in anyone's estimation than I proved myself to be."

"Hot, was he?" asked Bayliss, with a half sneer.

"He started out that way," replied Hudson. "But pretty soon Dad became dignified, and asked me where I had ever gotten the notion that I amounted to any more than any other fellow of the same brain caliber."

"What did you tell him? asked Bert Dodge, frowning.

"I couldn't tell him much," retorted Hudson, smiling wearily. "Dad was primed to do most of the talking. When he stopped for breath mother began."

"It's all that confounded Dick Prescott's doings! It's a shame! It's a piece of anarchy—that's what it is!" muttered Paulson. "On my way here I passed three men on the street. They looked at me pretty hard, and laughed after I had gone by. Fellows, are we going to allow that mucker, Dick Prescott, to make us by-words in this town?"

"No siree, no!" roared Fremont.

"Good! That's what I like to hear," put in Hudson dryly. "And what are we going to do to stop Dick Prescott and turn public opinion our ways"

"Why——"

"We——"

"The way to——"

"We'll——"

Several spoke at once, then all came to a full stop. The "soreheads" looked at each other in puzzled silence.

"What are we going to do?" demanded Fremont. "How are we going to hit back at a fellow who has a newspaper that he can use as a club on your head?"

"We might have a piece put in 'The Evening Mail,'" hinted Porter, after a dazed silence. "That's the rival paper."

"Yes!" chimed in Bayliss, eagerly. "We can write a piece and get it put in 'The Mail.' Our piece can say that there has been a tendency, this year, or was believed to be one, to get a rowdyish element of the High School into the High School eleven, and that our move was really a move intended to sustain the past reputation of the Gridley High School for gentlemanly playing in all school sports. That will hit Dick & Co., and a lot of others, and will turn the laugh back on the muckers."

This proposition brought forth several eager cries of approval.

"I see just one flaw in the plan," observed Hudson slowly.

"What is it?" demanded half a dozen at once.

"Why, 'The Evening Mail' is a paper designed to appeal to the more rowdyish element in Gridley politics. 'The Mail's' circulation is about all among the class of people who come nearest to being 'rowdyish.' So I'm pretty certain, fellows, that 'The Mail' wouldn't take up our cause, and hammer our enemies with the word 'rowdy.' 'The Blade' is the paper that circulates among the best people in Gridley."

"And Dick Prescott writes for 'The Blade'!"

A gloomy silence followed, broken by Bayliss's disconsolate query:

"Then, hang it! What can we do?"

And that query stuck hard!

IX. BAYLISS GETS SOME ADVICE

On that fateful Thursday morning every High School boy, and nearly every High School girl saw "The Blade."

The morning paper, however, contained no allusion whatever to the football remarks of the day before.

Instead, there was an article descriptive of the changes to be made out at the High School athletic field this present year, and there were points and "dope" (as the sporting parlance phrases it) concerning the records and rumored new players of other High School elevens that were anxious to meet Gridley on the gridiron this coming season.

Thursday's article was just the kind of a one that was calculated to make every football enthusiast eager to see the season open in full swing.

Again the "soreheads" came to school, and once more they had to pass the silent groups of their fellow students, who stood with heads turned away. The reign of Coventry seemed complete. Never before had any of the "soreheads" understood so thoroughly the meaning of loneliness.

At recess all the talk was of football. None of this talk, however, was heard by the "soreheads." Whenever any of these went near the other groups the talk ceased instantly. There was no comfort in the yard, that morning, for a "sorehead."

When school let out that afternoon, at one o'clock, Bayliss, Fremont, Dodge and their kind scurried off fast. No one offered to stop them. These "exclusive" young men could not get away from the fact that exclusion was freely accorded them.

Fred Ripley, as had been his wont in other years when he was a freshman, walked homeward with Clara Deane.

"Fred, you haven't got yourself mixed up at all with that 'sorehead' crowd, have you?" Miss Deane asked.

"Not much!" replied Fred, with emphasis. "I want to play football this year."

"Will all the 'soreheads' be kept out of the eleven, even if they come to their senses?" Clara inquired.

"Now, really, you'll have to ask me an easier one than that," replied Fred Ripley laughingly.

"I had an idea that all of the fellows whose families are rather comfortably well off might be in the movement—or the strike or whatever you call it," Clara replied.

"Oh, no; there's a lot of us who haven't gone in with the kickers—and glad we are of it," Fred replied.

"Still, don't you believe in any importance attaching to the fact that one comes of one of the rather good old families?" asked Clara Deane thoughtfully.

"Why, of course, it's something to be quietly proud of," Fred slowly assented. Then added, with a quick laugh:

"But the events of the last two days show that one should keep his pride buttoned in behind his vest."

As for the "soreheads" themselves, there weren't any more meetings. As soon as they actually began to realize how much amused contempt many of the Gridley, people felt for them, these young men began to feel rather disgusted with themselves.

Across the street, and not far from the gymnasium building, was an apartment house in which two apartments were vacant. Being well acquainted with the agent, Bayliss borrowed the key to one of the apartments. Before half past two that afternoon, Bayliss and Dodge were in hiding, where they could look out through a movable shutter at the gymnasium building.

"There go Prescott, Darrin and Reade," Bayliss soon reported.

"Oh, of course; they'll answer the football call," sniffed Dodge. "It was over fellows just like them that the whole trouble started."

"And there's Dalzell, Hazelton and Hanshew. Griffith is just behind them."

"Yes; all muckers," nodded Dodge.

"There's Coach Morton."

"Of course; he has to attend," replied Dodge, coming toward the shuttered window. "But I'll wager old Morton isn't feeling over-happy this afternoon."

"I don't know," grumbled Bayliss. "There he is at the gym. door, shaking hands with Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin, and laughing pretty heartily."

"Laughing to keep his courage up, I reckon," clicked Bert Dodge dryly. "Morton knows he's going to miss a lot of faces that he'd like to see there this year."

Then Dodge took up post at the peephole, while Bayliss stepped back, yawning.

Several more football aspirants neared and entered the gym. The name of each was called off by Bert.

"This is the first year," chuckled Bayliss, "when Gridley hasn't had a chance for a star eleven."

"I'll miss the game, myself, like fury," commented Dodge. "All through last season, when I played on the second eleven, I was looking forward to this year."

"Now, don't you go to getting that streak, and quit us," warned Bayliss quickly. "Our set is going to get up its own eleven; don't forget that! And we're going to play some famous games."

"Sure!" admitted Dodge. But there was a choke in his throat.

Just a few moments later Bert Dodge gave a violent start, then cried out, in a voice husky with emotion:

"Oh, I say, Bayliss, look——"

"What——"

"Hudson!"

"What about him?"

"Quick!"

"Well, you ninny,"

"Hudson is going in the——"

With a cry partly of doubting, partly of rage, Bayliss leaped forward, crowding out Dodge in order to get a better view.

Hudson was actually ascending the gym. steps, and going up as though he meant business.

"He's gone over to—to—them!" gasped Bert Dodge.

"The mean traitor!" hissed Bayliss.

Hudson did, indeed, brave it out by going straight on into the gym. As he entered some of the fellows already there glared at him dubiously. But Hudson met the look bravely.

"Hullo!" cried Dick. "There's Hudson!"

Coach Morton heard, from another part of the gym. Turning around, the coach greeted tile reformed 'sorehead' with a nod and a smile. Then some of the fellows spoke to Hudson as that young man moved by them. In a few moments more, Hudson began to feel almost at home among his own High School comrades.

Then Drayne, another 'sorehead,' showed up. He, too, was treated as though nothing had happened. When Trenholm, still another of the "soreheads," looked in at the gym., he appeared very close to being afraid. When he saw Hudson and Drayne there he hastened forward. By and by Grayson came in. At the window across the street Bayliss and Dodge had checked off all four of these "deserters" and "traitors."

"Well, they'll play, anyway—either on school or on second," muttered Bert, to himself. "Oh, dear! Just think the way things have turned out."

These four deserters from the "soreheads" were all out of that very select crowd who did respond to the football call.

Promptly at three o'clock Coach Morton called for order. Then, after a very few remarks, he called for the names of all who intended to enter the football training squad for this season.

"And let every fellow who thinks he's lazy, or who doesn't like to train hard and obey promptly, keep his name off the list," warned the coach dryly. "I've come to the conclusion that what we need in this squad is Army discipline. We're going to have it this year! Now, young gentlemen, come along with your names—those of you who really believe you can stand Spartan training."

"I think I might draw the line at having the fox—or was it a wolf—gnawing at my entrails, as one Spartan had to take it," laughed one youngster.

"Guess again, or you'd better stay off the squad this year," laughed the coach. "This is going to be a genuinely rough season for all weaklings."

There was a quick making up of the roll.

"Tomorrow afternoon, at three sharp, you'll all report on the athletic field," announced Coach Morton, when he had finished writing down the names. "Any man who fails to show up tomorrow afternoon will have his name promptly expunged from the squad rolls. No excuses will be accepted for failure tomorrow."

There was a crispness about that which some of the fellows didn't like.

"Won't a doctor's certificate of illness go?" asked one fellow laughingly.

"It will go—not," retorted coach. "Pill-takers and fellows liable to chills aren't wanted on this year's team, anyway. Now, young gentlemen, I'm going to give you a brief talk on the general art of taking care of yourselves, and the art of keeping yourselves in condition."

The talk that followed seemed to Dick Prescott very much like a repetition of what Coach Luce had said to them the winter before, at the commencement of indoor training for baseball.

As he finished talking on health and condition Mr. Morton drew from one of his pockets a bunch of folded papers.

"I am now," he continued, "going to present to each one of you a set of rules, principles, guides—call them what you will. On this paper each one of you will find laid down rules that should be burned into the memories of all young men who aspire to play football. Do not lose your copies of these rules. Read the rules over again and again. Memorize them! Above all, put every rule into absolute practice."

Then, at a sign, the young men passed before the coach to receive their printed instructions.

"Something new you've gotten up, Mr. Morton?" inquired one of the fellows.

"No," the coach admitted promptly. "These rules aren't original with me. I ran across 'em, and I've had them printed, by authority from the Athletics Committee. I wish I had thought up a set of rules as good."

As fast as they received their copies each member of the squad darted away to read the rules through. This is what each man found on the printed sheet:

"1. Work hard and be alive.

2. Work hard and learn the rules.

3. Work hard and learn the signals.

4. Work hard and keep on the jump.

5. Work hard and have a nose for the ball.

6. Work hard all the time. Be on speaking terms with the ball every minute.

7. Work hard and control your temper and tongue.

8. Work hard and don't quit when you're tackled. Hang onto the ball.

9. Work hard and get your man before he gets started. Get him before the going gets good.

10. Work hard and keep your speed. If you're falling behind your condition is to blame.

11. Work hard and be on the job all the time, a little faster, a little sandier, a little more rugged than the day before.

12. Work hard and keep your eyes and ears open and your head up.

13. Work hard and pull alone the man with the ball. This isn't a game of solitaire.

14. Work hard and be on time at practice every day. Train faithfully. Get your lessons. Aim to do your part and to make yourself a perfect part of the machine. Be a gentleman. If the combination is too much for you, turn in your togs and call around during croquet season."

"What do you think of that, as expounding the law of football?" smiled coach, looking down over Dave Darrin's shoulder.

"It doesn't take long to read, Mr. Morton And it ought not to take long to memorize these fourteen rules. But to live them, through and through, and up and down—that's going to take a lot of thought and attention."

To the four ex-"soreheads" not a word had been said about the late unpleasantness, nor was this quartette any longer in Coventry.

Trenholm, Grayson, Drayne and Hudson were the four best football men of the Bayliss-Dodge faction. Now that they were to play with the High School eleven all concerned felt wholly relieved.

As the young men were leaving the gym. that afternoon Coach Morton found a chance to grip Dick's arm and to whisper lightly in his ear:

"Thank you, Prescott."

"For what, Mr. Morton."

"Why, for what you managed to do to hold the school eleven together. That was clever newspaper work, Prescott. And it has helped the school a lot. I'm no longer uneasy about Gridley High School on the gridiron for this season. We'll have a team now!"

With a confident nod the coach strolled away.

As the gym. doors were thrown open the members of the new football squad rushed out with joyous whoops. Some of the more mischievous or spirited actually tackled unsuspicious comrades, toppling their victims over to the ground. That line of tactics resulted in many a "chase" that brought out some remarkably good sprinting talent. Thus the squad dissipated itself like the mist, and soon the grounds near the school were deserted.

Bayliss and Bert Dodge went away to nurse a grievance that nothing seemed to cure.

For these two, now that their strong line of resistance had been broken, found themselves secretly longing, as had the four deserters, for a place in the football squad.

Bert Dodge sulked along to school, alone that Friday morning. Bayliss, however, after a night of wakefulness, had decided to "eat crow."

So, as Dick, Dave and Greg Holmes were strolling along schoolward, Bayliss overhauled them.

"Good morning, fellows," he called, briskly, with an offhand attempt at geniality.

All three of the chums looked up at him, then glanced away again.

"Oh, I say, now, don't keep it up," coaxed Bayliss. "We High School fellows all want to be decent enough friends. And how's the football? I don't suppose the squad is full yet. I—I half believe I may join and take a little practice."

"Thinking of it?" asked Dick, looking up coolly.

"Yes—really," replied Bayliss.

"See the coach, then; he's running the squad."

"Yes; I guess I will, thanks. Good morning!"

Bayliss sauntered along, blithely whistling a tune. He knew Coach Morton would give him the glad hand of welcome for the squad and the team.

"Oh, Mr. Morton," was Bayliss's greeting, as he encountered the coach near the school building steps.

"Yes?" asked the submaster pleasantly.

"I—I—er—I didn't make the meeting yesterday afternoon, but I guess you might put my name down for the squad."

"Isn't this a bit late, Bayliss?" asked the submaster, eyeing the youth keenly.

"Perhaps, a bit," assented the confident young man. "However——"

"At its meeting, last night, Mr. Bayliss, the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association advised me to consider the squad list closed."

"Closed?" stammered Bayliss, turning several shades in succession. "Closed? Do—do you mean——"

"No more additions will be made to the squad this year," replied the coach quietly, then going inside.

Bayliss stood on the steps, a picture of humiliation and amazement.

"Fellows," gasped Bayliss, as Prescott and his two chums came along, "did you hear that? Football list closed?"

"Want some advice?" asked Dick, halting for an instant.

"Yes," begged Bayliss.

"Never kick a sore toe against a stone wall," quoth Dick Prescott, and passed on into the school building.

X. TWO GIRLS TURN THE LAUGH

By this time training was going on briskly. Four days out of every week the squad had to practice for two hours at the athletic field.

There were tours of work in the gym., too.

Besides, it was "early to bed and early to rise" for all members of the squad.

Even those who hoped only to "make second" were under strict orders to let nothing interfere with their condition.

Three mornings in the week Coach Morton met all squad men for either cross-country work or special work in sprinting. And this was before breakfast, when each man was on honor pledged to take only a pint of hot water—nothing more—before reporting. On the other mornings, football aspirants were pledged to run without the coach.

Yet, with all this, studies had to be kept up to a high average, for no man on the "unset" list could hope to be permitted to play football.

Hard work? Yes. But discipline, above all. And discipline is priceless to the young man who really hopes to get ahead in life!

"You're not playing fair," Dave cried reproachfully to his chum one day.

"Why not?" Prescott questioned mildly.

"You're using hair tonic!" Darrin asserted, with mock seriousness, as he gazed at Dick's bushy mop of football hair. "You're growing a regular chrysanthemum for a top piece to your head."

"Oh, my hair, eh?" smiled Dick. "Why, you can have as fine a lot of hair if you want to take the trouble."

"Don't I want it, though?" retorted Darrin. "What kind of tonic do you use?"

"Grease," smiled Prescott.

"Nothing but grease?"

"Nothing much."

"What kind of grease?"

"Elbow!"

"Now, stop your joshing," ordered Dave promptly. "No kind of muscular work is going to bring out a fuzzy rug like that on anyone's skypiece."

"But that's just how I do it," Dick insisted. "Not a bit hard, either. See here! Just use your finger tips, briskly, like this, and stir your whole scalp up with a brisk massage."

"How long do you keep it up?" demanded Dave, after following suit for some time.

"Oh, about ninety seconds, I guess," nodded Prescott. "You want to do it eight times a day, and wash your head weekly, though with bland soap and not too much of it."

"Is that honestly all you do to get a Siberian fur wig such as you're wearing?"

"That's all I do," replied Dick. "Except—yes; there's one thing more. Go out of doors all you can without a hat."

"The active curry-comb and the vanished hat for mine, then," muttered Dave, with another envious look at Dick's bushy hair.

Nor did Dave rest until the other chums all had the secret. By the time that the football season opened Dick & Co. were the envy of the school for their heavy heads of hair.

With all the hard work of training, Coach Morton did not intend that the young men should be so busy as to have no time for recreation. He understood thoroughly the value of the lighter, happier moments in keeping an athlete's nervous system up to concert pitch.

Though the baseball training of the preceding spring had been "stiff" enough, Dick & Co. soon found that the football training was altogether more rugged.

In fact, Coach Morton, with the aid of Dr. Bentley as medical director, weeded out a few of the young men after training had been going on for a fortnight. Some failed to show sufficient reserve "wind" after running. A few other defectives proved not to have hearts strong enough for the grilling work of the gridiron.

All the members of Dick & Co., however, managed to keep in the squad. In fact, hints soon began to go around, mysteriously, that Dick & Co. were having the benefit of some outside training. Purcell came to young Prescott and asked him frankly about this report.

"Nothing in it," Dick replied promptly. "We're having just the same training as the rest of the boys. But I'll tell you a secret."

"Go on!" begged Purcell eagerly.

"You know the training rules—early retiring and all?"

"Yes; of course."

"Well, we fellows are sticking to orders like leeches. Every night, to the minute, we're in bed. We make a long night's sleep of it. Then, besides, we don't slight a single particle of the training work that we're told to do by ourselves. We've agreed on that, and have promised each other. Now, do you suppose all the fellows are sticking quite as closely to coach's orders?"

"I—I—well, perhaps they're not," agreed Purcell.

"Are you?" insisted Dick.

"In the main, I do."

"Oh," observed Prescott, with mild sarcasm. "'In the main'! Now, see here, Purcell, we High School fellows are fortunate in having one of the very best coaches that ever a High School squad did have. Mr. Morton knows what he's doing. He knows how to bring out condition, and how to teach the game. He lays down the rules that furnish the sole means of success at football. And you—one of our most valuable fellows—are following some of his instructions—when they don't conflict with your comfort or with your own ideas about training. Now, honestly, what do you know about training that is better than Coach Morton's information on that very important subjects"

"Oh, come, now; you're a little bit too hard, Prescott," argued Purcell. "I do about everything just as I'm told."

"You admit Mr. Morton's ability, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then why don't you stick to every single rule that's laid down by a man who knows what he is doing? It will be better for your condition, won't it, Purcell?"

"Yes, without a doubt."

"And what is better for you is better for the team and for the school, isn't its"

"By Jove, Prescott, you're a stickler for duty, aren't you?" cried Purcell.

He spoke in a louder tone this time. Two girls who were passing the street corner where the young men stood heard the query and glanced over with interest.

Neither young man perceived the girls at that moment.

"Why, yes," Prescott answered slowly. "Duty is the main thing there is about life, isn't it?"

"Right again," laughed Purcell.

One of the girls looked swiftly at the other. They were Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, friends of Dick's and Dave's, and also members of the junior class.

"Well, I'm going to take a leaf out of your book," pursued Purcell. "I'm really as anxious to see Gridley High School always on top as you or any other fellow can be."

"Of course you are," nodded Dick. "The way you put our baseball team through last season proves that."

"I'm going to be a martinet for training, hereafter," Purcell declared earnestly. "I'm going to be a worse stickler than old coach himself. And I'm going to exercise my right as a senior to watch the other fellows and hold their noses to the training grindstone."

"Then I'm not worried about Gridley having a winning team this year," Dick answered.

"By Jove, you had a lot to do with that, too, didn't you, Prescott?" cried Purcell. "You put it over the 'soreheads' so hard that we never heard from them again after we got started."

"You helped there, also, Purcell. If you and Ripley and a few others had gone over to the 'soreheads' it would have stiffened their backbone and nothing could have made it possible, this year, for Gridley High School to have an eleven that would represent all the best football that there is in the grand old school."

In the first two years of their school life Dick and Dave had spent many pleasant hours in the society of Laura and Belle. So far, during the junior year, the chums had had but little chance to see the girls, for the demands of football were fearfully exacting.

Laura, being almost at the threshold of seventeen years, had grown tall and womanly. Bert Dodge began to notice what a very pretty girl the doctor's daughter was becoming. So, one afternoon while the football squad was practicing hard over on the athletic field, Bert encountered Laura and Belle as they strolled down the Main Street.

Lifting his hat, Dodge greeted the girls, and stood chatting with them for a few moments. To this neither of the girls could object, for Bert's manners, with the other sex, were always irreproachable.

But, presently, Laura saw her chance. She did not want to be rude, but Bert's face had just taken on a half-sneering look at a chance mention of Dick's name.

"You aren't playing football this year, Bert?" Laura asked innocently.

Bert quickly flushed.

"No," he admitted.

"Of course everyone can't make the eleven," Belle added, with mild malice.

"I—I don't believe I'd care to," Dodge went on. "I—you see—I don't care about all the fellows in the squad."

"I don't suppose every boy who is playing on the squad is a chum of everyone else," remarked Laura.

"Such fellows as Prescott, for instance, I don't care much about," Bert continued, with a swift side glance at Laura Bentley to see how she took that remark. But Laura showed not a sign in her face.

"No?" she asked quietly. "I think him a splendid fellow. By the way, he and Dave Darrin haven't received the reward for finding your father, have they?"

Bert gasped. His face went white, then red. He fidgeted about for an answer.

"No," he replied, cuttingly, at last, "and I don't believe they ever will."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," cried Laura in quick contrition. "I didn't know that it was a tender spot with you, or your family."

"It isn't," Bert rejoined hurriedly. "It simply amounts to this, that the reward will never be paid to a pair of cheeky, brazen-faced——"

"Won't you please stop right there, Mr. Dodge?" Laura asked sweetly. "Mr. Prescott and Mr. Darrin are friends of ours. We don't like to hear remarks that cast disrespect in their direction."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," answered Bert, trying not to be stiff. But he was ill at ease, leaving the girls very soon after.

Yet, in his hatred for Dick and Dave, young Dodge resolved upon a daring stroke. He enlisted Bayliss, and the pair sought to "cut out" Prescott and Darrin with Laura and Belle.

Neither Dick nor Dave was in love. Both were too sensible for that. Both knew that love affairs were for men old enough to know their own minds. Yet the friendship between the four young people had been a very proper and wholesome affair, and much pleasure had been derived on all sides.

Nowadays, however, Bert and Bayliss managed to be much out and around Gridley while the football squad was at practice. Almost daily this pair met Laura and Belle, as though by accident, and the two young seniors usually managed, without apparent intrusion, to walk along beside Laura and Belle, often seeing the pair to the home gate of one or the other.

"You two fellows want to look out," Purcell warned Dick and Dave, good-naturedly, one day. "Other fellows are after your sweet-hearts."

"I wonder how that happened," Dick observed good-humoredly. "I didn't know we had any sweethearts."

"What about——" began Purcell, wondering if he had made a mistake.

"Please don't drag any girls' names into bantering talk," interposed Dave, quickly though very quietly.

So Purcell said no more, and he had, indeed, meant no harm whatever. But others were noticing, and also talking. High School young people began to take a very lively interest in the new appearance of Dodge and Bayliss as escorts of Laura and Belle.

Then there came one especially golden day of early autumn, when it seemed as though the warm, glorious day had driven everyone out onto the streets. Dodge and Bayliss met Laura and Belle, quite as though by accident, and manifested a rather evident determination to remain in the company of the girls as long as possible.

Finally Laura halted before one of the department stores.

"Belle, there's an errand you and I had in mind to do in there, isn't there?" Laura asked.

"May we have the very great pleasure, then, of your leave to wait until you are through with your shopping?" spoke up Bert Dodge quickly.

Laura flushed slightly. Just then more than a dozen of the football squad, coming back from the field, marching solidly by twos, turned the corner and came upon this quartette. There were many curious looks in the corners of the eyes of members of the squad.

Despite themselves Dick and Dave could feel themselves reddening.

But Laura Bentley was equal to the emergency. "Here come the school's heroes—the fellows who keep Gridley's High School banner flying in the breeze," she laughed pleasantly.

Both Dodge and Bayliss started to answer, then closed their lips.

"Won't you please excuse us, boys?" begged Laura, in her usual pleasant voice. "Here are Dick and Dave, and Belle and I wish to speak with them."

From some of the members of the football squad went up a promptly stifled gasp that sounded like a very distant rumble.

Dick and Dave, looking wholly rough and ready in their sweaters, padded trousers and heavy field shoes, stepped out of the marching formation as though obeying an order.

The chums looked almost uncouth, compared with the immaculate, dandyish pair, Dodge and Bayliss. The latter, with so many amused glances turned their way, could only flush deeply, stammer, raise their hats and—fade away!

The lesson was a needed and a remembered one. Laura and Belle took their afternoon walks in peace thereafter.

XI. DOES FOOTBALL TEACH REAL NERVE?

"Get in there, Ripley! Don't be afraid. It's only a leather dummy. It can't hurt you! Now, tackle the dummy around the hips—hoist!"

A laugh went up among the crowd as Fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy.

Young Ripley's face was red, but he took the coach's stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year.

"Now, Prescott! Show us that you can beat your last performance! Imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!"

Dick rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right.

"Let go!" called the coach, laughingly. "It isn't a sack of gold!"

Another laugh went up. This was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of Gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work.

For half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for Coach Morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling.

"Now," continued the coach, in a voice that didn't sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, "it'll be just as well if you fellows don't get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled. The provisional first and second teams will now line up. Second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal. You fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or School eleven. Fight for all you're worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going! You fellows of the first, or School eleven, I want to see what you can do with real tackling."

There was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection. The ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly.

The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball. Second's right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School's line. On School's left, Dick and Ripley raced in together, while second's interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. Dick, too, understood. He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead. At Ripley, therefore, the second's interference hurled itself savagely. It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and Dick Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. In an instant the ball was "down." Second had gained less than a yard.

"Good work!" the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle." Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work."

Again second essayed to get away with the ball. This time the forward pass was employed—that is to say, attempted. Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs.

Now School had the ball. As the quarter-back's signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School's right end. As the ball was snapped, School's right wing went through the needful movements, but Dick Prescott, over at left end, had the ball. Ripley and Purcell were supporting him.

Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. It was team work again. Dick was halted, for an instant. Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition—on and on! Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. He was over second's line—touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers.

As Dick came back he limped just a bit.

"I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game," remarked one citizen admiringly.

"Nerve? pooh!" retorted his companion. "Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys

are rolling over one another. The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve."

The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically.

"Would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed,"

"Yes; I suppose so," admitted the kicker.

"Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life."

"But they're not looking for it," objected the kicker, "or they wouldn't go in so swift and hard. Real nerve? I'd believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!"

"Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game," pursued the first speaker. "Coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer. Yet I can't help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs."

"I want to see the nerve, and I want to see the game prove its worth," insisted the kicker.

Second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it. Thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with High School eleven.

And now the practice was over for the afternoon. The whistle between coach's lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring—aching a bit, too—came off the field. Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling. Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field. But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed.

Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered. As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information.

"Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?" asked one man.

"Yes," replied Mr. Morton promptly.

"Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?" questioned another.

"No; of course not, as yet. Each day some of the young men develop new points—of excellence, or otherwise. The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division. In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team. We shall have it all decided within a few days."

"But you're rather certain," insisted another, "that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?"

"It would be going too far to say that," replied Coach Morton slowly. "The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game. Our judgment is even more reliable after they've been through the second game."

By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate. Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them. The kicker was still on hand.

Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence. There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries.

"He's bent on killing the officer! Run!"

"Look out! Here he comes! Scoot!"

"He's crazy!"

Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all.

Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open. Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad. The citizens followed, running and puffing.

Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight. One of the smallest members of Gridley's police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street.

Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over. Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself. But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him. The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow.

Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed.

Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely. It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway.

"Look out, boys! He'll kill you!" shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background.

"Will he?" grunted Dick grimly. "Greg, I'll tackle the fellow—you be ready to fall on him. Head down, now—charge!"

As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy's goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow.

"Get outer my way!" roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them.

Dick's head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair.

"Get out of my way, you kid!" gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him.

Greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter

But Dick sailed straight in. As he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side.

Fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young Prescott.

But Dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man. The big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists.

Dick wasn't hit, however. Instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat—all quick as a flash.

That big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled. Red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse.

As he fell, Greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow's chest. In another instant young Prescott was a-top of the fellow.

"Keep him down, boys!" yelled Coach Morton.

Just before the coach sprinted to the spot Dave Darrin, then Tom Reade, and then Tom Purcell, hurled themselves into the fray.

When the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold.

The policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could.

"Will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?" asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets.

"Will we?" ejaculated Dave. "Whoop!"

"Roll the fellow over!" called Dick Prescott.

With a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back. There was a scuffle, but Coach Morton helped. A minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place.

In the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm.

"What do you say, now?" asked that man's companion. "Though, of course, Prescott and Holmes knew that help wasn't far off."

"It doesn't make any difference," retorted the recent kicker. "Either boy might have been killed by that big brute before the help could have arrived."

"Then does football teach nerve?"

"It certainly must!" agreed the recent kicker.

XII. DICK, LIKE CAESAR, REFUSES THE CROWN

A few days later the members of the school team, and the substitutes, had been announced. Then the men who had made the team came together at the gymnasium.

Who was to be captain of the eleven?

For once there seemed to be a good deal of hanging back.

If there were any members of the team who believed themselves supremely fitted to lead, at least they were not egotistical enough to announce themselves.

There was a good deal of whispering during the five minutes before Mr. Morton called them to order. Some of the whisperers left one group to go over to another.

"Now, then, gentlemen!" called Coach Morton. "Order, please!"

Almost at once the murmuring stopped.

"Before we can go much further," continued the coach, "it will be necessary to decide upon a captain. I don't wish to have the whole voice in the matter. If you are to follow your captain through thick and thin, in a dozen or more pitched football battles, it is well that you should have a leader who will possess the confidence of all. Now, whom do you propose for the post of captain? Let us discuss the merits of those that may be proposed."

Just for an instant the murmuring broke out afresh.

Then a shout went up:

"Purcell!"

But that young man shook his head.

"Prescott!" shouted another.

Dick, too, shook his head.

"Purcell! Purcell!"

"Now, listen to me a moment, fellows!" called Purcell, standing very straight and waving his arms for silence. "I don't want to be captain. I had the honor of leading the baseball nine last season."

"No matter! You'll make a good football captain!"

"Not the best you can get, by any means," insisted Purcell. "I decline the honor for that reason, and also because I don't want the responsibility of leading the eleven."

"Prescott!" shouted three or four of the squad at once.

Purcell nodded his head encouragingly.

"Yes; Prescott, by all means! You can't do better."

"Yes, you can! And you fellows know it!" shouted Dick.

His face glowed with pleasure and pride, but he tried to show, by face, voice and gesture, that he didn't propose to take the tendered honor.

"Prescott! Prescott!" came the insistent yell.

Above the clamor Coach Morton signaled Dick to come forward to the platform.

"Won't you take it, Prescott?" inquired the coach.

"I've no right to, sir."

"Then tell the team why you think so."

As soon as coach had secured silence Dick, with a short laugh, began:

"Fellows, I don't know whether you mean it all, or whether you're having a little fun with me. But——"

"No, no! We mean it! Prescott for captain! No other fellow has done as much for Gridley High School football!"

"Then I'll tell you some reasons, fellows, why I don't fit the position," Dick went on, speaking easily now as his self-confidence came to him. "In the first place, I'm a junior, and this is my first year at football. Now, a captain should be a whole wagon-load in the way of judgment. That means a fellow who has played in a previous season. For that reason, all other things being equal, the captain should be one of the seniors who played the gridiron game last year."

"You'll do for us, Prescott!" came the insistent call.

"For another thing," Dick went on composedly, "the captain should be a man who plays center, or close to it. Now, I'm not heavy enough for anything of that sort. In fact, I understand I'm cast for left tackle or left end—probably the latter. So, you see, I wouldn't be in the right part of the field. I don't deny that I'd like to be captain, but I'd a thousand times rather see Gridley win."

"Then who can lead us to victory" demanded Dave Darrin briskly.

Dick promptly. "He's believed to be our best man for center. He played last year; he knows more fine points of the game than any of us juniors can. And he has the judgment. Besides, he's a senior, and it's his last chance to command the High School eleven."

"If Wadleigh'll take it, I'm for him," spoke Dave Darrin promptly.

Henry Wadleigh, or "Hem," as he was usually called, was turning all the colors of the rainbow. Yet he looked pleased and anxious.

There was just one thing against Wadleigh, in the minds of Hudson and some of the others. He was a boy of poor family. He belonged to what the late but routed "soreheads" termed "the mockers." But he was an earnest, honest fellow, a hard player and loyal to the death to his school.

"Any other candidates?" asked Coach Morton.

There was a pause of indecision. There were a few other fellows who wanted to captain the team. Why didn't some of their friends put them in nomination?

Dick & Co. formed a substantial element in the team. They were for "Hen" Wadleigh, and now Tom Reade spoke:

"I move that Wadleigh be considered our choice for captain."

"Second the motion," uttered Dan Dalzell, hastily.

Coach Morton put the proposition, which was carried. Wadleigh was chosen captain, subject to the approval of the Athletics Committee of the alumni, which would talk it over in secret with Coach Morton.

And now the team was quickly made up. Wadleigh was to play center. Dick was to play left end, with Dave for left tackle. Greg Holmes went over to right tackle, with Hazelton right guard. Dan Dalzell was slated as substitute right end, while Tom Reade was a "sub" left tackle.

Fred Ripley was put down as a substitute for left end. As one who kept in such close training as did Prescott he was not likely to miss many of the big games, and Fred's chances for playing in the big games was not heavy. Yet Ripley was satisfied. Even as a "sub," he had "made" the High School eleven.

"I think, gentlemen," declared Mr. Morton, in dismissing the squad, "that we have as good a team to put forward this year as Gridley has ever had. The only disquieting feature of the season is the report, coming to us, that many of the rival schools have, this year, better teams in the field than they have ever had before. So we've got to work—well like so many animated furies. Remember, gentlemen, 'coldfeet' never won a football season."

Bayliss and Dodge when they heard the news, were much disgusted. They had hoped that subs. Instead, Dick and three of his cronies had been put in Gridley's first fighting line, only two of the redoubtable six being on the sub list.

School and second teams, being now sharply defined, fell to playing against each other as hard and as cleverly as they could.

Wadleigh's choice as captain was confirmed by the Athletics Committee.

"But I'd never have had the chance, Prescott, old fellow, if it hadn't been for you," "Hen" protested gratefully. "Dick, I won't forget your great help!"

"I didn't do anything for you, Hen," Prescott retorted, with one of his dry smiles.

"You didn't?" gasped Wadleigh.

"No, sir! I did it for the school. I wanted to see our team have the best possible captain and the winning eleven!"

Bert and Bayliss happened to be passing the gymnasium when they heard of the selection of Wadleigh.

"Bert," whispered Bayliss, "I believe you're at least half a man!"

"What are you driving at?" demanded Dodge.

"We owe Dick Prescott a few. If you're with me we'll see if his season on the gridiron can't be made a farce and a fizzle."

XIII. BERT DODGE "STARTS SOMETHING"

As always happens the schedule of the fall's games was changed somewhat at the last moment.

In the first change there was a decided advantage. Wrexham withdrawing its challenge almost at the last, Coach Morton took on Welton High School for the first game of the season.

Now, Welton must have played for no other reason than to gratify a weak form of vanity, for there were few High School teams in the state that had cause to dread Welton High School.

For Gridley, however, the game served a useful purpose. It solidified Captain Wadleigh's team into actual work. The score was 32 to 0, in favor of Gridley. However, as Dick phrased it, the practice against an actual adversary, for the first time in the season, was worth at least three hundred to nothing.

"But don't you fellows make a mistake," cautioned Captain Wadleigh. "Don't get a notion that you've nothing bigger than Welton to tackle this year. Next Saturday you've got to go up against Tottenville, and there's an eleven that will make you perspire."

Coach Morton had Tottenville gauged at its right value. During the few days before the game he kept the Gridley boys steadily at work. The passing and the signal work, in particular, were reviewed most thoroughly.

"Remember, the pass is going to count for a lot," Mr. Morton warned them. "You can't make a weight fight against Tottenville, for those fellows weigh a hundred and fifty pounds more, to the team, than you do. They're savage, swift, clever players, too, those Tottenville youths. What you take away from them you'll have to win by strategy."

So the Gridley boys were drilled again and again in all the special points of field strategy that Coach Morton knew or could invent.

Yet one of the best things that Mr. Morton knew, and one that always characterized Gridley, was the matter of confidence.

Captain Wadleigh's young men were made to feel that they were going to win. They did not underestimate the enemy, but they were going to win. That was well understood by them all.

Now, in the games of sheer strategy much depends upon nimble ends.

Dick Prescott, in particular, was coached much in private, as well as on the actual gridiron.

"Keep yourself in keen good shape, Mr. Prescott," Mr. Morton insisted. "We need your help in scalping Tottenville next Saturday."

As the week wore along Mr. Morton and Captain Wadleigh became more and more pleased with themselves and with their associates.

"I don't see how we can fail tomorrow," said Mr. Horton, quietly, to "Hen" Wadleigh, just after the School and the second teams had been dismissed.

It was not much after half-past three. Practice had been brief, in order that none of the players might be used up.

"Prescott, in especial, is showing up magnificently," replied Wadleigh. "He and Darrin are certainly wonders at their end of the line."

"You must use them all you can tomorrow, and yet don't make them fight the whole battle," replied Coach Morton. "Save them for the biggest emergencies."

"I'll be careful," promised Wadleigh.

Dick and Dave walked back into the city, instead of taking a car.

"How are you feeling, Dick?" asked Dave.

"As smooth as silk," Prescott replied.

"I don't believe I've ever been in such fine condition before," replied Dave.

"That's mighty good, for I have an idea that the captain means to use us all he can tomorrow."

"Oh, Tottenville is as good as beaten, then," laughed Dave, with all the Gridley confidence.

"I'd like to know just how strong Tottenville is on its right end of the line," mused Prescott.

"I don't care how strong they are," retorted Darrin, with a laugh. "You and I are not going to use strength; we're going to rely upon brains—Coach Morton's brains, though, to be sure."

The two chums separated at the corner of the side street on which stood the Prescott bookstore and home. Dave hurried home to attend to some duties that he knew were awaiting him.

Dick, whistling, strolled briskly on. He saw Dodge and Bayliss on the other side of the street, but did not pay much attention to them until they crossed just before Dick had reached his own door.

"There's the mucker," muttered Bayliss, in a tone intentionally loud enough for the young left end to overhear.

"I won't pay any attention to them," thought Dick, with an amused smile. "I can easily understand what they're sore about. I'd feel angry myself if I had been left off the team."

"Why do fellows like that need an education?" demanded Dodge, in a slightly louder tone, as the pair came closer.

Still Dick Prescott paid no heed. He started up the steps, fumbling for his latch key as he went.

"You faker! You mucker!" hissed Bayliss, now speaking directly to the young left end.

This was so palpable that Dick could not well ignore it. Dropping the key back into his pocket, he turned to stare at the two "sorehead" chums.

"Eh?" he asked, with a quiet laugh.

"Yes; I meant you!" hissed Bayliss.

"Oh, well," grinned Dick, "your opinions have never counted for much in the community, have they?"

"Shut up, you ignorant hound!" warned Bayliss belligerently.

"Too bad," retorted Dick tantalizingly. "Of course, I understand what ails you. You were left off the High School team, and I was not. But that is your own fault, Bayliss. You could have made the team if you hadn't been foolish."

"Don't insult me with your opinions fellow!" cried Bayliss, growing angrier every instant. At least, he appeared to be working him self up into a rage.

"Oh, I don't care anything about your opinions, and I have no anxiety to spring mine on you," retorted Dick, in an indifferent voice. Once more he fumbled for his latch key.

"You haven't any business talking with gentlemen, anyway," sneered Bert Dodge.

Dick flushed slightly, though he replied, coolly:

"As it happens, just at present I am not!"

"What do you mean by that?" flared Bert.

"Oh, you know, you don't care anything about my opinions," laughed Dick. "Let us drop the whole subject. I don't care particularly, anyway, about being seen talking with you two."

"Oh, you don't?" cried Bayliss, in a voice hoarse with rage.

In almost the same breath Bert Dodge hurled an insult so pointed and so offensive that Dick's ruddy cheek went white for an instant.

Back into his pocket he dropped the latch key, then stepped swiftly down before his tormentor.

"Dodge," he cried warningly, "take back the remark you just made. Then, after that, you can take your offensive presence out of my sight!"

"I'll take nothing back!" sneered the other boy.

"Then you'll take this!" retorted Dick, very quietly, in a cold, low voice.

Prescott's fist flew out. It was not a hard blow, but it landed on the tip of Bert Dodge's nose.

"You cur!" cried Dodge chokingly. "Wait until I get my coat off."

"No; keep it on; I'm going to keep mine on," retorted Prescott. "Guard yourself, man!"

"Jump in, Bayliss! We'll thump his head off!" gasped Dodge, with almost a sob in his voice, to was so angry.

Bayliss would have been nothing loath to "jump in." But, just as Dick Prescott, after calling "guard," aimed his second blow at Bert, Fred Ripley, Purcell and "Hen" Wadleigh all hurried up to the scene.

For Bayliss to be caught fighting two-to-one would have resulted in a quick thrashing for him. So Bayliss stood back.

"Bad blood, is there?" asked Wadleigh, as the new arrivals hurried up.

"Prescott, after insulting Bert, flew at him," retorted Bayliss, panting some with the effort at lying.

Dodge was now standing well back. He had parried three of Dick's blows, but had not yet taken the offensive. As Dodge was a heavier man, and not badly schooled in fistics, Dick had the good sense to go at this fight coolly, taking time to exercise his judgment.

"What's it all about?" demanded Wadleigh.

Just for an instant Bayliss felt himself stumped. Then, all of a sudden, an inspiration in lying came to him.

"Prescott got ugly because the Dodges never paid that thousand-dollar reward," declared Bayliss.

Dick heard, and with his eye still on Dodge, shouted out: "That's not true, Bayliss. You know you are not telling the truth!"

Bayliss doubled his fists, and would have struck Prescott down from behind, but Wadleigh, who was a big and powerful fellow, caught Bayliss by his left arm, jerking him back.

"Now, just wait a bit, Bayliss," advised "Hen," moderately. "From what I know of Prescott I'm not afraid but that he'll give you satisfaction presently—if you want it."

"You bet he'll have to!" hissed Bayliss.

"If Prescott loses the argument he has on now," added Purcell, significantly, "I fancy he has friends who will take his place with you, Bayliss."

Then all turned to watch the fight, which was now passing the stage of preliminary caution.

Several boys and men had run down from Main Street. Now, more than a score of spectators were crowding about.

"Hurrah!" piped up one boy from the Central Grammar School." The mucker bantam against the 'sorehead' lightweight!"

There was a laugh, but Bert Dodge didn't join in it, for, after receiving two glancing, blows on the chest, he now had his right eye closed by Dick's hard left.

The next instant the bewildered Dodge received a blow that sent him down to the sidewalk.

"I think I've paid you back, now," Prescott remarked quietly.

At this moment Mr. Prescott, hearing the noise from the back of his bookstore, came to the door.

"What is the trouble, Richard?" inquired his parent.

Dick stepped over to his father, repeating, in a low voice, the insult that Dodge had hurled at him.

"You couldn't have done anything else, then!" declared the elder Prescott, fervently; and this was a good deal for Dick's father, quiet, scholarly and peace-loving, to say.

Bert and Bayliss walked sullenly away amid the jeers of the onlookers. Once out of their sight, Bert, fairly grinding his teeth, said:

"Bayliss, I'll have my revenge yet on that mucker Prescott—" and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he added savagely:

"The Tottenville game's tomorrow—you know?"

"Yes?" said Bayliss inquiringly.

"Well, wait till tomorrow afternoon, and I'll take the conceit out of the miserable cur—just you wait."

XIV. THE "STRATEGY" OF A SCHOOL TRAITOR

"Rah! rah! Gri-i-idley!"

Again and again the whole of the rousing, inspiring High School yell smote the air.

It was but a little after noon on Saturday.

It seemed as though two thirds of the school, including most of the girls, had come down to the railway station to see the High School eleven off on its way to Tottenville. That city was some thirty miles away from Gridley, but there was a noon express train that went through in forty minutes.

Coach Morton and Captain Wadleigh had rounded up the whole of the school team. All of the subs were there. The coach and members of the team were at no expense in the matter, since their expenses were to be paid out of the gate receipts of the home eleven.

To many of the boys and girls of Gridley High School, however, the affair bore a different look. The round trip by rail would cost each of these more than a dollar, with another fifty cents to pay for a seat on the grand stand at Tottenville.

Hence, despite the fine representation of High School young folks at the railway station, not all of them were so fortunate as to look forward to going to the game.

In addition to those of the young people who could go, there were more than three hundred grown-ups who had bought tickets. The railroad company, having been notified by the local agent, had added a second section to the noon express.

And now they waited, enthusiasm finding vent in volleys of cheers and the school war-whoop.

Dick Prescott and his chums stood at one end of the platform. Nor were they alone. Many admirers had gathered about them. Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, who were going with the rest to Tottenville, were chatting with Dick and Dave. Each of the girls carried the Gridley High School colors to wave during the expected triumphs of the afternoon.

"I'm glad you're playing today," Laura almost whispered to young Prescott.

"Why?" smiled Dick

"Why, I believe you're one of those fortunate people who always carry their mascot with them," rejoined Miss Bentley earnestly. "With you there, Dick, I feel absolutely certain that even Tottenville must go down in the dust. Gridley will bring back the score—and not a tied score, either."

"I certainly hope I am as big a mascot, or possess as big a mascot as you seem to believe," laughed young Prescott.

"You and Dave are each other's mascots," declared Belle Meade, with a laugh. "I remember that last year when you were both on the baseball nine Gridley never lost a game in which you and Dave both played."

"Nor did the nine lose any other game," returned Dick, "though there were some games when Dave and I weren't on the batting list. The nine didn't lose a game last season, Miss Belle, and had only one tied score."

"Anyway," declared Laura, with great conviction, "it all comes back to this—that Gridley can't lose today because both Prescott and Darrin are to play."

"And I believe, young ladies, that you're both much nearer to the truth than you have any idea of. In today's game a great deal does depend on Prescott and Darrin."

It was Captain "Hen" Wadleigh, who, passing to the rear of the group, had overheard Laura's remark, and had made this addition to her prophecies.

"Here comes the train!" yelled one youth, who was fortunate enough to have a ticket for the day.

Soon after the sound of the whistle had been heard the express rolled in. But this was the first section of the regular train. By some effort the football crowd was kept off the train. Soon after the second section of the train was sighted as it rolled toward the station.

"Team assemble!" roared Captain Wadleigh.

There was a rush of husky, mop-headed youths in his direction.

Just then a hand rested on Dick's arm.

"Let me speak with you, just a moment Prescott."

As Dick turned he found himself looking into the face of Hemingway, plan clothes man to Chief Coy of the Police department.

"I'm awful sorry, lad, but——" began Hemingway slowly, in a tone of the most genuine regret.

Dick's face blanched. He scented bad news instantly, though he could not imagine what it was.

"Anyone sick—any accident at home?" asked the young left end.

"Team aboard, first day coach behind the smoker!" roared Captain Wadleigh, and the fellows made a rush.

"The truth is," confessed Hemingway, "I've a war——"

Dick saw light in an instant.

"Oh, that wretched Dodge? He has——"

"Sworn out a warrant for your arrest," nodded Hemingway.

Laura and Belle did not hear or see this. They were hurrying rearward along the train.

Few of the football fellows saw the trouble, for they were busy boarding the car named by Captain Wadleigh.

Dave Darrin was the only one to pay urgent heed.

"See here, Hemingway," began Dave, "Dick will come back—you know that. He's desperately needed today. Won't it do just as well——"

"No," broke in the plain-clothes man, reluctantly. "I'd have done that if possible, but Dodge's father put the warrant in my hand and insisted."

"He?" echoed Darrin, bitterly. "The very man that Dick and I rescued when he was out of his head and in the clutches of scoundrels He? Oh, this is infamous—or crazy!"

"I know it is," nodded Officer Hemingway sympathetically. "But what am I to do when——"

"Hustle aboard, there, you Prescott and Darrin!" roared Captain Wadleigh's voice from an open window.

"You hear, Hemingway?" urged Dave.

"Yes; but I can't help it," sighed the policeman.

"We're not going—can't——" fluttered Darrin. His voice was low, but it reached the captain of the eleven.

"What's that?" roared Wadleigh, making a dash for the door of the car. "Keep your seats, you other fellows. I——"

"You go, Dave—you must!" commanded Dick. "Hurry! The train is starting. Hustle! Play for both of us."

Dick gave his chum a push that was compelling. Dave yielded, boarding the step as the end of the car went by him.

"What——" began Wadleigh, breathlessly.

"I'll explain," panted Darrin angrily.

The train was now in full motion.

"Hey, dere! Stop dot train, quick! Me! I am not off board, yet!"

It was Herr Schimmelpodt, hot, perspiring and gasping, who now raced upon the platform. For one of his weight, combined with his lack of nimbleness, it was hazardous to attempt to board the moving train.

Yet Herr Schimmelpodt made a wild dash for the train. He would have been mangled or killed, had not Officer Hemingway caught the anxious German and pulled him back.

"Hey, you! Vot for you do dot?" screamed Herr Schimmelpodt. "Hey? Answer me dot vun, dumm-gesicht!" (Foolish-faced one.)

"I did it to save you from going under the wheels," retorted Officer Hemingway dryly.

"Und now I don't go me by dot game today!" groaned Herr Schimmelpodt. "Me! I dream apout dot game all der veek, und now I don't see me by it."

"But, man——"

"Hal's maul." (Literally' "Shut your mouth!")

"Me! Und I Couldn't lose dot game for ein dollar!" glared the prosperous German.

He stared after the departed second section, from the open windows of which fluttered or wildly waved many a banner; for few of the Gridley crowd had yet discovered that one of the most prized members of the team had been left behind.

Herr Schimmelpodt it was, who, a wealthy retired contractor, had found his second youth in his enthusiasm over the High School baseball nine the season before.

Though thrifty enough in most matters, the German had become a liberal contributor to the High School athletic fund, to the great dismay of his good wife, who feared that his new outdoor fads would yet land them both in the poorhouse.

"Vot you doing here, Bresgott?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, turning upon the young prisoner. "Vy you ain't by dot elefen? How dey going to vin bis you are behint left?"

"You have company in your misery, sir," said Officer Hemingway. "I'm awfully sorry to say that Dick Prescott can't see today's game, either. It's a whopping shame, but sometimes the law is powerless to do right."

"What foolishness are you talking mit, vonce alretty?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, looking bewildered.

"I've just been arrested, on a false charge of assault," Dick stated quietly.

"You? Und you don't blay by der game yet' By der beard of Charlemagne," howled Herr Schimmelpodt excitedly, "ve see apoud dot!"

Digging down into a trouser's pocket this enthusiastic old High School "rooter" brought up a roll of bills almost as large around as a loaf of bread.

XV. A "FACER" FOR THE PLOTTER

"What are you going to do with all that wallpaper, Mr.Schimmelpodt?" laughed Officer Hemingway.

"Me? I gif bail, don't I?" demanded the German.

"Well, you can't do it here. That's a matter to be fixed in court."

"Und dot train going by a mile a minute, I bet you!" gasped the German ruefully.

"Come along, lad," urged Hemingway gently. "On Saturdays court opens at one o'clock. We'll get right up there and see this matter through."

"I bet you've see dis matter through—right through someone, ain't it?" exploded Herr Schimmelpodt, ranging himself on the other side of the young prisoner.

As they went along the German, using all his native and acquired shrewdness, quickly got at the bottom of the matter.

In the meantime indignant Dave Darrin was telling all he knew about the business to an indignant lot of High School youngsters in the day coach.

"You keep your upper eyebrow stiff, Bresgott," urged the warm-hearted German. "I see you through by dis business. Don't you worry."

"Thank you, but it isn't the arrest that is really bothering me," Prescott answered. "It's the feet that I'm fooled out of playing this afternoon. And Darrin and I had been trained for so many special tricks for today's game that I'm almost afraid my absence will make a difference in the score. But, Herr Schimmelpodt, if you want to help me, do you really mind dropping in at the store and telling my father, so that he can come down to the court room? Yet please be careful not to scare Dad. He has a horror of courts and criminal law."

"I bet you I do der chob—slick," promised the German, and hurried away.

"There goes a man that's all right, from his feet up to the top of his head," declared Officer Hemingway.

On the streets Dick's appearance with Hemingway attracted little notice. Folks were used to seeing the High School reporter of "The Blade" walking with this policeman-detective. The few who really did notice merely wondered why Dick Prescott was not on his way to the Tottenville gridiron today.

When Hemingway and his prisoner reached the court room there were only two or three loungers there, for it was still some minutes before the time for the assembling of the court.

Presently Bert Dodge and his friend, Bayliss, dropped in. They glanced at the young left end with no attempt to conceal their feelings of triumph. Bert looked much the worse for wear.

Dick returned their looks coolly, but without defiance. He was angry only that he should have been cheated of his right to play in that big game.

Then in came the elder Dodge, only just back from a sanitarium. Beside him walked Lawyer Ripley, who immediately came over to Dick, just before Herr Schimelpodt and Dick's father entered the room hastily.

"Prescott," began the old lawyer, sitting down beside the young player, and speaking in a low tone, "I've just been called into this matter, as I'm the Dodge family lawyer. Had my advice been asked I would have demanded much more investigation. From what knowledge I have of you, I don't regard you as one who is likely to commit an unprovoked assault. Have you any objection to stating your side of the case bearing in mind, of course, the fact that I'm the Dodge lawyer."

"Not the least in the world," Dick replied promptly.

It was just at this moment that Herr Schimmelpodt and the elder Prescott came hastening into the room.

Bert Dodge and Bayliss looked over uneasily, several times, to where Lawyer Ripley and the young prisoner sat. Dick's father stood by in silence. He already knew his son's version of the affair of the day before. Herr Schimmelpodt didn't say anything, but sat down, breathing heavily.

Then the clerk of the court and two court officers came in. Justice Vesey entered soon after and took his seat on the bench.

"The case of Dodge versus Prescott—I mean, the people against Prescott, your honor, is the only thing on the docket this afternoon," explained the clerk.

"Is the case ready" inquired the justice mildly.

"I will ask just a moment's delay, your, Honor," announced Lawyer Ripley, rising. "I wish a moment's conference with my principals."

The court nodding, Mr. Ripley crossed the room, engaging in earnest whispered conversation with the Dodges, father and son.

While this was going on a telegraph messenger boy entered. Espying Dick, he went over and handed him a yellow envelope. Dick tore it open. It was a telegram sent by Dave Darrin, on the way to Tottenville, and read:

"Fred Ripley said he heard insult offered you by Dodge yesterday. Get case adjourned to Monday and Ripley will testify in your behalf."

Smiling, Dick passed the message to his father. Mr. Prescott, after scanning the telegram, rose gravely, crossed the room and handed the slip of paper to Lawyer Ripley.

"If the court please, we are now ready with this case," announced Lawyer Ripley.

"Proceed, counselor. Mr. Clerk, you will swear such witnesses as are to be called."

"If the court please," hastily interjected Mr. Ripley. "I don't believe it is going to be necessary to call any witnesses. With the court's permission I will first make a few explanations."

"This case, your Honor, is one in which Albert Dodge, a minor, with the consent of his father, has preferred a charge of aggravated assault against Richard Prescott, a minor.

"That there was a fight, and that said Prescott did vigorously assault young Dodge, there is no doubt. Prescott himself does not deny it. But I am satisfied, if it please the court, that the case is one in which, on the evidence, young Prescott is bound to be discharged. I am satisfied that young Prescott had abundant provocation for the assault he committed. Further, we have received apparently satisfactory assurance by wire that a witness is prepared to testify to conduct and speech, on the part of young Dodge, that would justify an assault, or, as the boys call it, 'a fight.' Now, your Honor, if the prisoner, Prescott, through his father, will agree to hold the elder Dodge blameless in the matter of civil damages on account of this arrest, I shall move to have the case dismissed."

"Will you so agree, Mr. Prescott," inquired the court, glancing at Dick's father.

"Yes," agreed the elder Prescott, "though I must offer my opinion that this arrest has been a shameful outrage."

"My client, the elder Dodge——" began Lawyer Ripley, in a low voice.

"Case dismissed," broke in Justice Vesey briskly, and Mr. Ripley did not finish his remark.

Bowing to the court, Dick rose, picked up his hat and started out with his father.

But once outside Herr Schimmelpodt caught them both by the arm.

"Vait!" he commanded. "I much vant to hear me vot Lawyer Ripley haf to say to dot young scallavag."

"Are you talking about me?" demanded Bert Dodge, flushingly hotly, for, just at that moment, he turned out of the court room into the corridor.

"Maybe," assented Herr Schimmelpodt.

"Then stuff a sausage in your Dutch mouth, and be quiet," retorted Bert impudently.

"Young man, if your father hat not enough gontrol of er you, den I vill offer him dot I teach you manners by a goot spanking," replied Herr Schimmelpodt stiffly.

"Bert, you will be silent before your elders," ordered Mr Dodge. "You have come close enough to getting me into trouble today. Had I understood the whole story of the fight, as I do now, I never would have backed your application for a warrant."

If you meet with any rebuke from young Prescott's friends, take it in meekness, for you richly deserve censure."

"As you are only a boy, Bert, and I am your father's lawyer," broke in Mr. Ripley, even more sternly, "I have used whatever powers of persuasion I may have to have this case ended mildly. The Prescotts might have sued your father for a round sum in damages for false arrest. And, if you and Bayliss had sworn falsely as to the nature and causes of the fight, you might both have been sent away to the reformatory on charges of perjury. Remember that the law against false swearing applies to boys as much as it does to men. And now, good day, Mr. Dodge. I trust you will be able to convince your son of his wrongdoing."

However, the elder Dodge, despite his momentary sternness, was not a parent who exercised much influence over his son. Half an hour later Bert had out the family runabout, making fast time toward Tottenville.

"Bert," said Bayliss, rather soberly, "I'm inclined to think that Lawyer Ripley was good enough to get us out of a fearful scrape."

"That's what he's paid for," sniffed Bert "He's my father's lawyer."

"Then I'm glad your father has a good lawyer. Whew! It makes me sick when I stop to think that we might have been trapped into giving—er—prejudiced testimony, and that then we might have been shipped off to the reformatory until we're of age!"

"Ain't Fred Ripley the sneak, though!" ejaculated Bert angrily. "The idea of him standing ready to 'queer' a case against his father's clients! I thought Fred had more class and caste than to go against his own crowd for the sake of a mere mucker!"

"Well, the thing turned out all right, anyway," muttered Bayliss. "We're off in time to see the game."

"And that's more than Dick Prescott will do today," laughed Bert sullenly. "He can't catch a train to Tottenville, now, in time for the game."

"If Gridley loses the game today," hinted Bayliss, "I suppose the fellows will all feel that it was because Prescott didn't go along. Then they'll all feel like roasting us."

"Oh, bother what the High School ninnies think—or say," grunted Bert.

Fifteen minutes later there was a loud popping sound. Then a tire flattened out, so that it became necessary for the young men to get out and busy themselves with putting on another tire. At this task they did not succeed very well until, finally, another automobilist came along and gave the boys effective help.

So it was that, by the time the pair reached Tottenville, housed the car at a garage, and reached Tottenville's High School athletic field, the game was well on.

As the two young men reached the grand stand the Gridley contingent were on their feet, breathless.

Gridley had the ball down to the ten-yard line from Tottenville's goal. Captain Wadleigh's signals were ringing out, crisp and clear. A whistle sounded.

Then the ball was put swiftly into play. Tottenville put up a sturdy resistance against Gridley's left end.

Dave Darrin had the ball, and appeared to be trying to break through the Tottenville line, well backed by Gridley's interference.

Of a sudden there was a subtle, swift pass, and Gridley's left end darted along, almost parallel with the ten-yard line, then made a dashing cut around and past Tottenville.

Two of the home team tackled that left end, but he shook them off. In another instant——

"Touchdown!" yelled the frantic Gridley boosters.

"Touchdown! Oh, you Darrin! Oh, you Prescott!"

Bert Dodge rubbed his eyes.

"Prescott?" he muttered.

"Blazes, but that is Prescott!" faltered Bayliss, with a sickly grin.

"How did he ever get over here in time to play?" demanded Bert Dodge.

Herr Schimmelpodt could have told. The stout, sport-loving old contractor had parted with some of his greenbacks to a chauffeur who had put Dick and himself over the long road to Tottenville. And the young left end was playing, today, in his finest form!

XVI. "THE CATTLE CAR FOR YOURS"

It was Dave Darrin who kicked the goal. This ran the score up to six to nothing in Gridley's favor.

It was the first scoring in a game that had begun by looking all bad for Gridley.

The Tottenville High School boys were bigger than the visitors and fully as speedy.

In fact, even now, to impartial observers, it looked as though these six points on the score had been won by what was little better than a fluke.

"Gridley can't keep this up," remarked the Tottenville boosters confidently. "They'll lose their wind and nerve against our fine line before the game is much older."

The first half went out with score unchanged. But Captain Wadleigh did heave a sigh of relief when the time keeper cut in on that first half.

"Fellows, look out for the fine points," he warned his fellows, after they had trotted into quarters. "It'll be craft, not strong rush, that wins for us today, if anything does."

"Prescott's here. He and Darrin can put anything over in the line of craft," laughed Fred Ripley.

Ripley was in togs, but was not playing. He was on the sub line, today, awaiting a call in case any player of his team became disabled.

"Darrin and Prescott are all right," nodded Wadleigh gruffly. "But they have endurance limits, like other human beings. Don't rely too much upon any two or three men, fellows. Now, in the second half"—here Wadleigh lowered his voice—"I'm going to spare Prescott and Darrin all I can. So you other fellows look out for hard work."

Dick's eyes were still flashing. This was not from the fever of the game, but from the recollection of how narrowly he had escaped being tricked out of this chance to play today.

On his arrival, and while dressing before the game, Prescott had related to the team the mean trick that had been played upon him. He had also told how the case came out in court.

"Dodge and Bayliss are traitors to the school!" cried Purcell indignantly. "We'll have to give 'em the silence!"

"Hear! Hear!" cried several of the fellows.

This, in other words, meant that Dodge and Bayliss would be "sent to Coventry"—shut out from all social contact with the school body during the remainder of the school year.

"I think I'm with you, fellows," nodded Captain Wadleigh. "However, remember that the football team can't settle all school questions. We'll take this up when we get back to Gridley."

In the second half it was not long before Gridley did go stale and tired. But so, too, to the disgust of home boosters, did the Tottenville High School boys.

The game became a sheer test of endurance. Gridley, under Wadleigh, played with a doggedness that made Tottenville put forth all its strength.

"Brace up, you lobsters," growled Captain Grant of the home team, after the whistle had sounded on Tottenville's "down" with the ball. "Buck the simple Gridley youths. Wade through their line as if you fellows were going to dinner half an hour late. Don't let them wind you, or stop you!"

Tottenville threw all its force into the following plays. Surely, doggedly, the home boys forced the ball down the gridiron. At last Gridley was forced to make a safety, thus scoring two points for their opponents.

"Don't let that happen again, fellows," urged Wadleigh anxiously. "Fight for time, but don't throw any two-spots away."

"Rally, men! Brace! Crush 'em!" ordered Captain Grant. "Seven minutes left! We've got to score."

These muttered orders caused a grim smile among the Tottenville High School boys, for the only way to tie the score would be to force Gridley to make two more safeties—a hard thing to do against a crack eleven in seven minutes!

Dick and Dave Darrin were called into play as soon as the visitors had the ball in their own hands once more.

The "trick" signal sounded from quarter-back's lips.

"One—three—seven—eleven!"

There was instant, seemingly sly activity on the part of Gridley's right wing. Those from Gridley who stood on the grand stand thought that the coming play looked bad in advance.

"Why don't they use Prescott again?" asked some one anxiously. "He has been having a vacation."

Then followed the snap-back. Quarter-back started with the ball, and it looked as though he would dash for the right.

The quarter took one step, then wheeled like lightning, and rushed after Darrin, who already was in swift motion.

Gridley's whole line switched for the left.

Tottenville found out the trick after the heaviest fellows in its line had started for Gridley's right.

"Oh, Darrin—sprint! Oh, you Prescott!"

Truly the boosters were howling themselves hoarse.

There was frenzy on in an instant.

To the knowing among the watchers there was no chance for Gridley to rush down on the enemy's goal line, but every yard—every foot, now—carried the pigskin just so much further from Gridley's goal line.

Gridley's interference rushed in solidly about Dave Darrin, as though to boost him through.

Dick seemed bent on beating down some of the formation surging against the visitors.

Just as the bunch "clumped" Dave Darrin went down. There was a surge over him, and then Dick Prescott was seen racing as though for life.

There was no opposition left—only Tottenville's quarter-back and the fullback.

Tottenville's quarter got after fleeting Dick too late, for the whole movement had been one of startling trickery.

One Tottenville halfback was too far away to make an obstructing dash in time.

In dodging the other halfback Dick dashed on as though not seeing the fellow. This, however, was all trick. Just in the nick of time Prescott, still holding the ball, ducked and dodged far to the left, getting around his man.

Tottenville's fullback was now the sole hope of the home team.

Prescott, however, dodged that heavy fellow, also.

From the Gridley boosters on the grand stand went up a medley of yells that dinned in the young left end's ears. Panting, all but fainting, Dick was over the enemy's goal line and he had the ball down.

When Dave had emerged from that fruitless clumping he had a broad grin on his face. He saw that while Dick was not yet over the goal line, only the fullback was in the way and the fullback was no match for Dick in the matter of speed.

Then the yells told the rest. Back came the ball. Captain Wadleigh nodded to Dave to kick the goal.

Captain Grant looked utterly wild. He had assured everyone in Tottenville who had asked him that the Gridley "come ons" would be eaten alive. And here——!

Dave made the kick. After going down in that bunch Darrin was not at his best. Body and nerves were tired. He failed to kick the goal.

Hardly, however, had the two teams been started in a new line-up when the time keeper did his trick. The game was over.

That last kick had failed, but who cared? The score was eleven to two!

Ere the players could escape from the field the Gridley boosters were over on the gridiron.

Dick and Dave were bodily carried to dressing quarters. Wadleigh, who had shown fine generalship in this stiff game was cheered until the boosters went hoarse.

"Gentlemen," cried Coach Morton, raising his voice to its fullest carrying power as the dressing quarters filled, "it's probably too early to brag, but I feel that we've got an old-fashioned Gridley eleven this year."

"Ask Grant!"

"Ask anybody in Tottenville!"

The first yell was sent up by Ripley, the second by another substitute.

All the Gridley members of the team were excited at the close of this game. Not even their weariness kept down their spirits.

Herr Schimmelpodt didn't attempt to enter quarters. He was now too much of a "sport" to attempt that. But he stood just outside the door, vigorously mopping his shining, wet face.

There were two extra places in the German's hired car. Dave, of course, was asked to fill one of these, and Captain Wadleigh was invited to take the fifth seat.

More dejected than ever were Bert Dodge and his chum, Bayliss, as they slouched away from the grounds. They did not attempt to invade the gridiron and join in the triumphal procession to quarters.

"You can't seem to down that fellow Prescott," muttered Bayliss, in disgust. "Just as you think you've got him by the throat you find out that he's sitting on your chest and pulling your hair."

"Oh, I don't know," growled Dodge sulkily. "He may have his weak spot, and it may be a very weak spot at that."

The pair moped along until they reached the garage in which they had left the runabout.

Bayliss was standing near the doorway, while Bert inspected the machinery of the car.

"Pest! Look out there," muttered Bayliss, stepping back from the open doorway.

"What is it?" demanded Bert. "Oh, I see! Old Schimmelpodt brought the beggar Prescott over here in an auto. That's how the fellow managed to get into the game, after all. Well, what of it all, anyway?"

"That car is running along slowly, and it has a full-sized crowd in it," muttered Bayliss, going closer to his crony. "Wadleigh, Prescott and Darrin—and maybe the chauffeur is a thick friend of theirs."

"What on earth are you driving at?" demanded Dodge, glancing up.

"Bert, I don't believe I'm wholly stuck on the scheme of us driving back to Gridley. There are too many lonely spots along the road.

"Do you think they'd assassinate us?" jeered Bert.

"I—I think Wadleigh may have formed the notion of stopping us and giving us a thrashing," responded Bayliss.

"Bosh!" snapped Dodge quickly.

Yet, none the less, he paused and looked thoughtful.

"There's more than one road to Gridley, old fellow," muttered Bert uneasily. "You see Schimmelpodt and that mocker didn't pass us on the way here."

"But I think they're likely to have guessed our road," persisted Bayliss. "There was an ugly look on Wadleigh's face, too, as that car drove past here."

"But old Schimmelpodt wouldn't stand for anything disorderly and—unlawful," urged Bert.

"I don't know about that," retorted Bayliss significantly. "That old German has gone crazy over High School sports. He might stand in for 'most anything. You know, he offered your Dad to give you a spanking this afternoon."

The thought of Herr Schimmelpodt's big and capable-looking hands caused Bert to shiver a bit uneasily. Yet he didn't want to admit that he was scared. He glanced at his watch.

"We've time to catch the regular train back, I suppose, Bayliss."

"Let's do it, then," begged the other.

"Will you pay a chauffeur to take this car home, then?"

"I'll pay half," volunteered Bayliss eagerly.

"All right, then; if you're pretty near broke, we'll divide the cost," agreed Dodge.

An arrangement was easily made with the owner of the garage. Then, the charges paid, this pair of cronies, who considered themselves much better than the usual run of High School boys, hurried over to the railway station.

The train was waiting by the time that the pair arrived. Bert and Bayliss hastily purchased tickets, then boarded the handiest car. The train proved to contain few people except the Gridley student body and boosters from that town.

"Here, what are you fellows doing in here?" angrily demanded Purcell, as the cronies entered one of the cars.

"We're going to ride to Gridley, if you've no objections," replied Bert, with sulky defiance.

"No, sir; not in this car!" declared Purcell promptly. "Too many decent people here. The cattle car for yours!"

"Oh, shut up!" retorted Dodge, trying to shove into a vacant seat.

But Purcell gripped him and pushed him back.

"No, siree! Not in here! The cattle car is your number."

"You——"

"We'll pitch you off the train if you have the cheek to try to ride in this ear," insisted Purcell.

High School boys, when off on a junket of this kind, are likely to be as wild as college boys. A score of the Gridley youths now jumped up. It looked as though there were going to be a riot.

"Oh, come on," snarled Bayliss, plucking his crony's sleeve. "We don't want to ride with this truck, anyway."

Into the next car stamped the two young men, their faces red with anger and shame.

"Sneaks!" piped up some one.

XVII. FACING THE "SCHOOL CUT"

At the instant of their entrance into the car the air had been full of merry chatter.

There were many High School girls in this car, and not many vacant seats.

As the word "sneaks" sounded through the car everyone turned around.

Bert and Bayliss found themselves uncomfortably conspicuous.

At once all the talk and laughter ceased. Stony silence followed.

One of the girls was sitting alone in a seat.

Bayliss, unable to endure the situation any longer, glided forward, dropping into the vacant place.

"That seat is engaged," the girl coolly informed him.

So Bayliss, redder than ever, hurriedly rose.

Bert had already started for the next car. Bayliss slunk along after him.

"Sneaks!" cried some one, as they showed their faces in still the next car forward.

Here, too, all the chatter stormed at once.

Bert, pulling his hat down over his eyes, went hurriedly past the boys and girls of Gridley, and into the next car.

Bayliss followed with the fidelity and closeness of a little dog.

Now, the next car ahead proved to be the smoking car. Here, at any rate, the despised pair could find safe harborage.

But one of the men of Gridley, who had followed the football team this day, and who had got an inkling of the story of the arrest, removed a cigar from between his lips and pointed an accusing finger at the boys.

"See here, you fellows!" he shouted. "This car is exclusively for men. Can you take a hint?"

"But we've got to sit somewhere," flashed Bert defiantly.

"I don't know as that's necessary, either," retorted the Gridley man. "At least, I don't care if it is. After your dirty little trick, today, we don't want you in here among men. Do we, neighbors?"

There were many mutterings, some cat-calls and at least a score of men rose.

"You let me alone, you fellows!" yelled Bert Dodge, as he made a break for the front end of the car. "Don't any of you dare to get fresh with me!"

By the time he had reached the front end of the car Bert was almost sobbing with anger and shame.

Bayliss had followed, white and silent.

In the baggage car, to their relief, the sole railway employee there did not object to their presence.

Bert and his crony found seats on two trunks side by side.

"Dodge," whispered Bayliss unsteadily, after the train had pulled out from Tottenville, "I'm afraid we're in bad with the school push."

"Afraid?" sneered Bert. "Man, don't you know it?"

"Well, it's all your fault—this whole confounded row!"

"Oh, you're going to play welsher, are you?" sneered Bert. "Humph! By morning you'll be a full-fledged mucker!"

"Don't you worry about that," argued Bayliss, though rather stiffly. "I know my family—and my caste."

"I should hope so," rejoined Dodge, with just a shade more cordiality.

Rather than alight at Gridley, and face the whole High School crowd—for scores who had not been able to meet the expense of the trip to Tottenville would be sure to be at the station to meet the victorious team—Bert and Bayliss rode on to the next station, then got off and walked two miles back to town.

By Monday morning the punishment of the pair was made complete.

Bert and Bayliss walked to school together. As they drew near the grounds both young men felt their hearts beating faster.

"I wonder if there's anything in for us?" whispered Dodge.

"Sure to be," responded Bayliss.

"Well, the fellows had better not try anything too frisky. If they do, they'll give us a chance to make trouble for 'em!"

It seemed as though the full count of the student body, boys and girls, had assembled in the yard this morning.

All was gay noise until the pair of cronies appeared at the gate.

Then, swiftly, all the noise died out.

One could hardly hear even a breath being drawn.

The silence was complete as Bert and Bayliss, now very white, stepped into the yard.

Though not a voice sounded, every eye was turned on the white-faced pair.

Bert Dodge's lips moved. He tried to summon us control enough of his tongue to utter some indifferent remark to his companion.

But the sound simply wouldn't come.

After a walk that was only a few yards in distance, yet seemed only less than a mile in length, the humiliated pair rushed up the steps, opened the great door and let themselves in.

At recess neither Bayliss nor Dodge had the courage to appear outside. As they left school that afternoon they were treated to the same dose of "silence."

Tuesday morning neither Dodge nor Bayliss showed up at all at school.

On Thursday morning High School readers of "The Blade" were greatly interested in the following personal paragraph:

"Bayliss and Dodge, both of the senior class, High School, have severed their connection with that institution. It is understood that the young men are going elsewhere in search of better educational facilities."

That was all, but it told the boys and girls at Gridley High School all that they needed to know.

"That is the very last gasp of the 'sorehead' movement," grinned Tom Reade, in talking it over with Dan Dalzell.

"Well, they did the whole trick for themselves," rejoined Dan. "No one else touched them, or pushed them. They took all the rope they wanted—and hanged themselves. Now, that pair will probably feel cheap every time they have to come back to Gridley and walk the streets."

"All they had to do was to be decent fellows," mused Tom. "But the strain of decency proved to be too severe for them."

In the High School yard that Thursday morning there was one unending strain of rejoicing.

Some of the other late "soreheads," who had escaped the full meed of humiliation—Davis, Cassleigh, Fremont, Porter and others—actually sighed with relief when they found what they had escaped in the way of ridicule and contempt.

"The whole thing teaches us one principle," muttered Fremont to Porter.

"What is that?"

"Never tackle the popular idol in any mob. If you can't get along with him, avoid him—but don't try to buck him!"

"Humph!" retorted Porter. "If you mean Prescott and his gang—Dick & Co., as the fellows call them—I can follow one part of your advice by avoiding them. I never did and never could like that mucker Prescott!"

The fact of interest to Dick would have been that he appeared to enjoy the respect of at least ninety-five per cent. of the student body of the High School.

Surely that percentage of popularity is enough for anyone. The fellow can get along without the approbation of a few "soreheads"!

XVIII. "PRIN." GETS IN THE PRACTICE

If Dodge and Bayliss devoted any time to farewells among their late fellow-students before quitting Gridley the fact did not seem to leak out.

Yet despite the absence of two young men who considered themselves of such great importance the Gridley High School appeared to go on about the same as ever.

It was the season of football, and nearly of the school's interest and enthusiasm seemed to spend itself in that direction. Coach Morton did all in his power to push the team on to perfection; the other teachers worked harder than ever to keep the interest of the students sufficiently on their studies. The girls, as well as the boys, suffered from the infection of the gridiron microbe.

Five more games with other High School teams were fought out, and now Gridley had an unbroken record of victories so far for the season.

Such a history can often be built up in the athletics of a High School, but it has to be a school attended by the cream of young manhood and having an abundance of public interest and enthusiasm behind it all.

Not at any time in the season did Coach Morton allow the training work to slacken. Regularly the entire squad turned out for field work. If the afternoon proved to be stormy, then four blasts on the city fire alarm, at either two o'clock or two-thirty, notified the young men that they were to report at the gym. instead. There, the work, though different, was just as severe. The result was that every youngster in the squad "reeked" with good condition all through the season.

It is in just this respect that many a High School eleven fails to "make really good." In a team where discipline is lax some of the fellows are sure to rebel at spending "all their time training." Where the coach exercises too limited authority, or when he is too "easy," the team's record is sure to suffer in consequence. Many a High School eleven comes out a tail-ender just because the coach is not strict enough, or cannot be. Many a team composed of naturally husky and ambitious boys fails on account of a light-weight coach. On the other hand, the best coach in the country can't make a winning eleven out of fellows who won't work or be disciplined.

Coach Morton's authority was unbounded. After the team had been organized for the season it took action by the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association to drop a man from the team. But coach and captain could drop the offender back to the "sub" seats and keep him there. Moreover, it was well known that Mr. Morton's recommendation that a certain young man be dropped was all the hint that the Athletics Committee needed.

Under failing health, or when duties prevented full attention to football training, a member of the team was allowed to resign. But an offending member couldn't resign. He was dropped, and in the eyes of the whole student body being dropped signified deep disgrace.

In five out of the won games Dick Prescott had played left end, and without accident. Yet, as it was wholly possible that he might be laid up at any instant, the coach was assiduously training Dan Dalzell and Tom Reade to play at either end of the line. Other subs were rigorously trained for other positions, but Dan and Tom were regarded as the very cream of the sub players in the light-weight positions.

Dan had played left end in one of the lesser gables, and had shown himself a swift, brilliant gridironist, though he was not quite as crafty as Prescott.

Tom Reade had less of strategy than Dan but relied more upon great bursts of speed and in the sheer ability to run away from impending tackle.

Now the boys were training for the team's eighth game, the one to be played against the Hepburn Falls High School, a strong organization.

"Remember that a tie saves the record, but that it doesn't look as well as a winning," Coach Morton coaxed the squad dryly, as they started in for afternoon practice.

"We miss the mascot that the earlier High School teams used to have," remarked Hudson.

"Yes? What was it?" inquired coach.

"Why, bully old Dr. Thornton used to drop in for a few minutes, 'most every practice afternoon?" replied Hudson. "I can remember just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in then. Oh, he was a mascot—Dr. Thornton was!"

Coach Morton was of the same mind, but he didn't say so, as it would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular principal, Abner Cantwell.

This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly. One of these was the kicking of the ball.

After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out:

"Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line. When you get there name your shot—that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball. Where doesn't matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one. After you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field. From there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named."

"All right, sir," nodded Dick. Tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line.

"Right over there!" called Dick, pointing. "I'll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance."

"Very good, Prescott!"

No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved.

"The duffers! They needn't think I am going to hit them with the ball," muttered Dick. Then he started on a hard run.

Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball.

It was a hard, fast drive. The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high.

But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt. A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage. His head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball.

And that man was Principal Cantwell!

Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe.

Dick saw and half shivered. Yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was:

"Low bridge!"

Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only:

"Mr. Cantwell!"

"Eh?" asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him.

Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best. He wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat. In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years. But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style.

There was no time for more warning.

The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat.

Bump! The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal's head.

On sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing to run upside down.

R-r-r-rip! The force with which the football was traveling impaled the hat on a picket at the side of the stand. Then, as if satisfied with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing at the principal's feet.

For one moment Mr. Cantwell was dumb with amazement.

Then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy of his loss. The angered man went white with wrath.

"What ruffian did that!" he roared.

But the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted though half-suppressed "whoop!" and now came running to the spot.

"Who kicked my hat off?" demanded the principal, pointing tragically to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of which the picket now stood up as though in triumph.

"You—you got in the way of—the ball, sir," explained Drayne, trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter.

"But some one kicked the ball my way," insisted the principal, with utter sternness. "Don't tell me that no one did! That football could not By through the air without some one propelling it. Now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?"

"I did, Mr. Cantwell," admitted Dick, pushing his way through the throng. "And I'm very sorry that anything like this has happened, sir."

"On, you did it, oh?" demanded the principal, eyeing the young man witheringly. "And you actually expect an apology to restore my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?"

"I didn't know you were there, sir," Dick explained. "You didn't appear until just after I had kicked the ball."

"Prescott is quite right, Mr. Cantwell," put in Coach Morton. "None of us knew you were here in the passage until the ball had been kicked—not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon you."

"Then, when you saw me, why didn't you call out to warn me?" demanded the principal, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back unparliamentary language.

"I did call out, sir," replied Dick. "There was mighty little time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could think of."

"What did you call?" demanded the principal.

"I yelled 'low bridge!'"

"A most idiotic expression," snorted the principal. "What on earth does it mean, anyway?"

"It means to duck, sir," Prescott answered.

"Duck?" retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end. "Now, what on earth does 'duck' mean, unless you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?"

"Prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, Mr. Cantwell," interposed Coach Morton. "So was I—the time was so short. All I could think of as to call out to you by name."

"With the result that I looked your way— and lost my row hat," snapped the principal. He now turmoil to take the spoiled article off the paling. He looked at it almost in anguish, for he had been very proud of that glossy article.

"It's a shame," muttered Drayne, with mock sympathy.

"That's what it is," agreed Dave Darrin innocently. "But—Mr. Morton—I think the matter can be fixed satisfactorily. If you call this to the attention of the Athletics Committee won't they vote to appropriate the price of a new hat out of the High School athletics fund? You know, the fund is almost overburdened with money this year."

"That might not be a bad idea," broke in the principal eagerly. "Will you call this to the attention of the Committee, Mr. Morton, For it was in coming here to watch the young men that I lost my fine, new hat."

"Now, I'm heartily sorry," replied Mr. Morton, "but I am certain the members of the committee will feel that money contributed by the citizens of the town can hardly be expended in purchasing hats for anyone."

"But——" Mr. Cantwell began to expostulate. Then he stopped, very suddenly. Just as plainly as anyone else present the principal now saw the absurdity of expecting a new hat out of the athletics fund. Mr. Cantwell shot a very savage look at innocent-appearing Dave Darrin.

"My afternoon is spoiled, as well as my hat," remarked the principal, turning to leave with as much dignity as could be expected from man who bore such a battered hat in his hands.

"The hatter might be able to block your hat out and repair it," suggested Hudson, though without any real intention of offering aid. "Our coachman had that sort of trick done to played-out old silk hat that Dad gave him."

"Mr. Hudson," returned the principal, turning and glaring at this latest polite tormentor, "will you be good enough to remember that I am not extremely interested in your family history.

"Back to your practice, men!" called the coach sharply, after the last had been seen of the back of the principal's black coat.

"It was too bad!" muttered Dick, in a tone of genuine regret.

"Say that again, and I'll make an effort to thrash you, Prescott!" challenged Hudson, with a grin.

"Well, I am sorry it happened," Dick insisted. "And mighty sorry, too."

"You couldn't help it."

"I know it, but that hardly lessens my regret. I don't enjoy the thought of having destroyed anyone else's property, even if I couldn't help it and can't be blamed.

"Prescott said he didn't know I was there!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell angrily to himself. "Bosh! That boy has been a thorn in my side ever since I became principal of the school. Of course he saw me—and he kicked wonderfully straight! Oh, how I wish I could make him wear this hat every day during the balance of the school year! Such a handsome hat—eight dollars!"

"It's a shame to tell you," confided Dave Darrin, as he and Dick headed the sextette of chums on the homeward tramp, "but you're certainly looking in great condition, old fellow."

"I feel simply perfect, physically," Dick replied. "I have, in fact, ever since I first began to train in the baseball squad last season. It's wonderful what training does for a fellow! I know there's a heap of bad condition in the world, but I often wonder why there is. Why, Dave, I ought to knock wood, of course, but I feel so fine that it seems as though nothing could put me out of form."

At that moment young Prescott had no idea how easily a few minutes could bring one from the best possible condition to the brink of physical despair.

XIX. LAURA AND BELLE HAVE A SECRET

"Only a team of fools would hope to stop Gridley High School this year."

Thus stated the Elliston "Tribune" after Gridley had walked through Elliston High School, one of the strongest school teams of the state, by a score of eight to nothing.

That copy of "The Tribune" found its way over to Gridley, and fell into the hands of some of the High School boys.

"Be careful, young men," warned Mr. Morton. "Don't get it too seriously into your heads that you can't be beaten, or your downfall will date from that hour. The true idea is not that on can't be beaten, but that you won't. Stick to the latter idea as well as you do to your training, and it will be a good eleven, indeed, that can get a game away from you."

"Only two more to play this year, anyway," replied Hudson. "We can't lose much."

"The team might lose two, and that would a worse record than any Gridley eleven has made in five years," retorted Mr. Morton dryly.

"We won't lose 'em, though," rejoined Tom Reade. "Every fellow in the squad is in a conspiracy to pull the eleven through the next two games—by its hair, if necessary."

"That line of thought is better than conceit," smiled the coach.

The game with Paunceboro High School came off, one of the most stubbornly fought battles that Gridley had ever entered. It seemed impossible to score against this enemy.

Again and again Dick broke around the left end in a spirited dash, or Dan Dalzell made one of his swift sorties at right end. Then, by the time that Paunceboro had grown used to end dashes, Gridley would make a smashing charge at center.

All these styles of attack, however, Paunceboro met smilingly. In the first half there was no score.

Yet Paunceboro did not succeed any better in getting through or around Gridley's line of flexible human steel. Until within ten minutes before the close of the second half, it looked like a tie between giants of the school gridiron.

Then, by a series of feints in which Prescott, Darrin, Drayne and Hudson bore off the most brilliant honors, although all under Wadleigh's planning, Paunceboro was sorely pressed down against its own goal line.

Just in the nick of time Paunceboro made a safety, and thus sent the ball back up the field. But it cost Paunceboro two reluctantly-given points, and that was the score—two to nothing.

Gridley was still victor in every game so far played in the season. November was now far along, and there remained only the great Thanksgiving Day game. This contest, against Filmore High School, was to be fought out on the Gridley field.

"Your football season will soon be over, Dick," remarked Laura Bentley, one afternoon when Prescott and Darrin, on their way back from coach's gridiron grilling, met Laura and Belle on Main Street.

"This season will soon be over," replied Dick "but I hope for another next year."

"And then, perhaps, at college?" hinted Belle.

"If we go to college," replied Dick slowly.

"Why? Don't you expect to?" asked Laura, in some surprise.

"We are not sure," murmured Dick, "that we want to go to college."

"Why, I thought both of you were ambitious for higher education," cried Belle.

"So we are," nodded Dave.

"Oh! Then, if not to college, you are going to some scientific school?" guessed Laura.

"I wonder if you two could keep a secret?" laughed Dick teasingly.

"Try us!" challenged Belle Meade.

Dick glanced at Dave, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

"No; we won't try you," retorted Dick "We'll trust you, without any promise on your part."

"Good!" cried Laura, in a gratified tone.

"Well?" inquired Belle, as neither boy spoke.

"It's just here, then," Prescott went on, in a low tone, after glancing around to make sure that no one else was within hearing. "The Congressman from this district, in a year or so more, will have the filling of a vacancy at West Point. That means a cadetship from this district. Now, a Congressman can appoint a cadet as a matter of favoritism, or to pay a political debt to some relative of the boy he so appoints. But the custom, in this district, has always been for the Congressman to appoint the boy who comes out best in a competitive examination. The examination is thrown open to all boys, of proper age, who can first pass a good physical examination."

"So you're both going to try for it?" asked Belle quickly.

"No," retorted Dave very quickly. "That would make us rivals. Dick and I don't want to be rivals."

"Then where do you come in?" asked Belle, glancing curiously at Darrin.

"Whisper!" replied Dave, looking mischievously mysterious. After a pause he continued, almost in a whisper:

"At just about the same time there will be a vacancy at Annapolis. So while Dick is trying to get a job carrying the banner for the Army, it will be little David trying for a chance to be a second Farragut in the Navy."

Dick winced at his chum's rather slighting allusion to an Army career, but on this one point of preference in the way of the service, the two chums were willing to disagree. Darrin wouldn't have gone to West Point if he could. Dick admitted the greatness of the American Navy, but all his heart was set on the Army.

"Both of you boys, then, are planning to give up your lives to the Flag?" exclaimed Laura.

"Yes," nodded Dick; "do you think it's foolish?"

"I think it's glorious!" breathed Laura.

"So do I," agreed Belle heartily; "though, like Dave, I should think the Navy would be the more attractive."

"Oh, the Navy is all right," gibed Dick. "It would never suit me, though. You see, a fellow in the Navy has nothing to do but ride into a fight on board a first-class ship. It's too much like being a Cook's tourist war time. Now, any Army officer, or a private soldier, for that matter, has to depend upon his own physical exertions to get him into the fight."

"And an Army fellow," twitted Dave, "if he finds the fight too hard for him, can always dig a hole and hide in it. But where can a naval officer hide?"

"Oh, he has it easy enough, anyway, hiding behind armor plate," scoffed Dick.

"Of one thing I feel certain, anyway," said Laura thoughtfully. "You are both of you cut out for the military life. Under the most fearful conditions I don't believe either one of you would ever show the white feather."

"I don't know," replied Dick gravely. "Neither one of us has ever been tested sufficiently. But I hope you're right, Laura. I'd sooner be dead, at this instant, than to feel that my cowardice would ever throw the slightest stain on the grand old Flag. I try to be generous in my opinions of others. I think I can stand almost any man except—the coward!"

"I'm not a bit afraid of either one of you, on that score," broke in Belle warmly.

"That's very kind of you," nodded Dave. "But of course you don't know any more about our bravery than we do ourselves. It has never been proven."

"How many young men have been killed in football this year?" asked Laura quietly.

"I think the paper stated, the other day, that it was something more than forty," replied Dick.

"Well, don't you two play football," demanded Laura. "Don't you both jump into the crush as fearlessly as anyone, Doesn't it take about as much nerve to play fast and furious football as it does to fight on the battlefields Isn't football, in its hardest form, a great training for the soldiers"

"Oh, perhaps," laughed Dick. "For that matter, Laura, I believe you could soon talk me into believing that I'm braver than good old Phil Sheridan!"

"Hullo," muttered Dave suddenly. "What——"

"Where's the crowd rushing!" demanded Belle, in the same breath.

"There's some trouble down the street!" cried Darrin. "And smoke, too."

"It's a fire!" cried Dick, wheeling about. "Come along—all!"

As the girls started to scurry down the street Dick caught Laura's nearer arm to aid her. Dave did as much for Belle.

These four young people were among the first hundred and fifty to gather on the sidewalk before a store and office building that was on fire.

It was a five story building. Fire had started in back on the second floor. Originating in offices empty at the time, the blaze had gained good headway ere it was discovered. It had eaten up to the third and fourth floors, and was now sweeping frontward. On the third floor the heat had cracked the window glass, and the air, rushing in, had fanned up a brisk blaze. Flames were beginning to shoot out their fiery tongues through these third story windows.

"Is everyone out of that building?" demanded the policeman on the beat, rushing up. He had just learned that a citizen had gone to ring in the fire alarm, so now the policeman's next thought was directed toward life saving.

There was a quick count of those who had been in the offices on the upper floors.

On the fourth floor one suite of offices had been occupied as a china painting school. Miss Trent, the teacher, who had reached the sidewalk safely, now looked about her anxiously.

"I had only one pupil up there, Miss Grace Dodge," replied Miss Trent, hurriedly. "I called to her and then ran. Miss Dodge started after me, then rushed back to get her purse, palette and color case."

"Has anyone seen Miss Dodge?" demanded the policeman.

No one had.

"Then I'll get up there, if I can," muttered the officer.

Dropping belt and club to the sidewalk, and pulling his helmet down tight on his head, the policeman darted into the building and up the stairs.

At that moment, above the smoke and flames pouring out of the third story windows, Grace Dodge appeared at one of the windows on the fourth floor. She was hatless, and a streak of blood appeared over her left temple.

"Don't jump!" shouted several men loudly. "A policeman has just started up to get you."

Miss Dodge appeared somewhat dazed; it was a question whether she understood. But her face disappeared from the window way. To many of the horrified ones below, it appeared as though the imperiled girl had swayed dizzily away from the window, as though overcome by the heat and fumes from the windows below her.

"Where is the fire department? Is it never coming?" wailed one woman in the throng, wringing her hands.

No one here knew that the citizen who had rushed to send in the alarm had found the first box out of order. He was now rushing to another alarm box.

Out of the hallway came the policeman, white-faced and tottering weakly.

"I—I couldn't get up much above the second floor," he gasped, in a voice out of which the strength was gone. "I—I guess the—heat and smoke got me! But—some one—must try!"

Where was that fire department?

Dick, staring over the crowd, found that all of his chums had arrived.

"Come on, fellows!" he yelled. "We've got to do something. Follow me!"

Prescott, after one swift glance at the buildings, made a dash for the door of the one just to the right of the blazing pile. Into the stairway entrance he dashed, followed by Dave Darrin, by Tom Reade, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell and Harry Hazelton.

"Hurrah!" yelled some one, in infectious enthusiasm. "Dick & Co. to the rescue!"

XX. IN THE LINE OF DARING

That became instantly the cry:

"Dick & Co. to the rescue!"

Yet none of the sextette heard it.

They were all inside, at the first step of their projected deed of bravery.

"All of you but Dave run through the offices!" yelled Dick. "Some of the tenants must have fire-rope coils. Grab the first rope you can find and bring it to me on the roof. Hustle! Dave, you follow me!"

Even to boys daily grilled on the football gridiron it was no mere matter of sport to dart up five flights of stairs at fast speed.

Dick Prescott was panting as he reached the roof and threw open the skylight door.

But he got out on the roof, hurrying across it, doing his best, at the same time, to gulp in chestfuls of fresh air.

Then he came to the edge of the roof next to the burning building.

The roof of that other building was about fifteen feet below the Roof on which Dick Prescott stood.

After an instant of swift calculation young Prescott jumped.

He landed, below, on the balls of his feet, though the next instant the momentum of the fall carried him forward onto his hands.

In another twinkling Prescott was up, running toward the front edge of the building.

He stopped at the skylight door, but discovered that the flames and smoke below shut off hope there. So he continued to the front of the roof.

Here Dick glanced back, for a second, to make sure that Dave had followed safely.

Darrin was on his feet, and waved his hand reassuringly.

Then Dick Prescott leaned out, peering down at the front of the burning building.

"There's Prescott!" shouted some of the most enthusiastic watchers.

"Hurrah. Old Gridley High School!"

But Dick paid no heed to the crowd. He was trying to locate the window at which Grace Dodge had appeared, and was trying to contrive how he would use a rope when one came.

In the meantime Darrin, having jumped to the lower roof, remained where he had dropped, awaiting the arrival of the other fellows with a rope.

After a few moments they came. Reade had a coil of inch rope, which he waved enthusiastically.

"Wait until we get the rope uncoiled," called Greg. "Then we'll lower some of us down to join you"

"Lower—nothing! Jump!" yelled Dave, in a stentorian quarter-deck voice.

Greg obeyed, instanter. Tom flung the coil of rope below, then followed it. Hazelton and Dalzell, an instant later, were with their comrades.

"Come on, now," ordered Darrin, who had snatched up the coil of rope and was darting over the roof. "Dick's waiting for us."

Prescott, still looking below, heard the swish of ropes on the roof as Dave uncoiled and threw the lengths out.

"Good!" yelled Dick, looking back. "Tom, you take a turn or two of the rope around that chimney, for anchor. Dave, you stand here at the roof edge to pay out the rope. Greg, you and Dan get in behind Dave to help on the hoist. See, Dave! That third window from the end— there's where the rope wants to go."

"You going down the rope?" queried Darrin dryly.

"Yes."

"Wait, then, and I'll tie some knots in it."

"No time for that," vetoed Dick sharply.

"I'll have to take my chances. Miss Dodge may be smothering, or burning. Pay it out—fast!"

Dick watched until he saw that the rope had gone low enough, and that it hung before the right window.

"Now, brace yourselves, fellows!" he called, between his hands, for the roar of the flames and the crackling of timbers made some sort of trumpet necessary, even at short range.

On his knees, his back to the street, at the edge of the roof, Dick Prescott seized the rope.

Then, with a fervent inward prayer, he started over the edge, and hung in the air, eighty feet from the ground.

Down below, the ever-increasing crowd let out a cyclonic, roaring cheer. It was a foolish thing to do, for it might have rattled the young football player. But Prescott paid no attention to the racket, and kept on lowering himself, coolly.

Here was where his gym. training and all his football practice came in splendidly. Every muscle was strong, every nerve true to its duty!

Not once did Prescott fear that he would lose his grip and fall to the street below.

Up above, at the roof's edge, stood Darrin, directing as though from quarter-deck or military-top. Dave had to lean rather far out, at that great height, but it did not make him dizzy.

"There! The grand old chap has landed on the window-sill! He has gone inside!" cried Dave, turning to his comrades. "Now we can wait until we feel a signal-pull on the rope."

As he turned away from the smoke that was coming up through the air Darrin realized how much smoke he had inhaled. He thumped his chest lightly, taking deep breaths.

Dick was in the studio now.

Close to the window, where the draught was strongest, Prescott found the smoke so thick that he had to grope his way through it; but bending low, he quickly came to where Grace Dodge lay unconscious on the floor.

She looked lifeless, as she lay there.

"Whew! I'm afraid she's a goner, already!" thought Dick, with a great surge of compassion.

However, seizing the unconscious girl by the shoulders he dragged her swiftly over the floor to the window through which he had come.

The rope still dangled there.

Seizing it, Dick gave it a gentle pull—not too hard, for fear the jerk might catch good old Dave of his guard and yank him over the roof's edge.

In another instant Darrin was "back on the job," peering down.

Dick made a signal that Dave understood perfectly.

Prescott's next care was to knot his end of the rope swiftly around Grace's body, above the waist, adjusting the coils so that considerable of the strain would come under the shoulders, where it could best be borne.

Once more Dick leaned out of the window, making motions. Dave Darrin nodded. The fascinated crowd in the street looked up, breathless. Few now even thought to wonder why the fire department did not appear.

At Dave's command the others on the roof with him began to hoist. Slowly, Dick aided Grace's body through the window. Then the girl, motionless, so far as she herself was concerned, swung in the air, slowly ascending.

Now groans of horror went up from the street. It seemed to the onlookers below as though a dead body were being hoisted.

Dick had made a loose hitch of the end of the rope so that it bound the girl's skirt about her ankles.

As he watched, he saw the swinging body steady at the roof edge. Then Grace disappeared from his sight as Dave and the others hauled her to momentary safety.

"Ugh!" gasped young Prescott. The smoke and the hot air, filling his lungs, drove him back from the open window to a spot where the draught was less intense.

After a few moments he heard something clattering against the window frame.

"What is it?" wondered Dick, dreamily, for his senses were leaving him.

Rousing himself, by a supreme effort of the will, the young football player staggered toward the window. It was the rope, which Dave had lowered for him. And thoughtful Darrin had swiftly knotted a strong slip-noose at the end.

Dick had just strength and consciousness enough left to slip this noose over his head and down under his armpits, drawing the noose tight. Then—so fast was the hot air and smoke overcoming him that he had to fight for it!—Dick forced his way to the sill and gave a hard tug at the rope. Then he reeled, falling back senseless upon the floor.

In that same instant, not far behind him, the flames burst through the flooring.

There must be some quick work, now, or Dick Prescott would meet a hero's death at seventeen!

XXI. THE PRICE OF BRAVERY

Dave Darrin did not falter in his duty for an instant.

He had been waiting for that tug on the rope.

Now he leaned out, and as far over as was possible without pitching himself headlong into the street below.

"Dick! Oh, Dick!" he roared.

There was, of course, no answer, for young Prescott day senseless on the floor, smoke and hot air filling his lungs, the creeping flames threatening to pounce upon and devour him.

Wondering, Dave gave a slight signal tug himself at the rope.

From below there was no answer.

"Something uncanny has happened, down there!" muttered Darrin.

"What's wrong?" called Reade.

"I wish I knew," muttered Dave. "There is no further signaling."

"Then——"

That was as far as Tom got with his hint at an explanation.

"Cut it," retorted Darrin briskly. "Keep the rope steady. I'm going down there."

"Can you——"

"Yes!" blazed Dave recklessly. "Watch me. Here goes nothing!"

As the last three words left his lips Darrin swung free over the roof edge.

He was going down the straining, smooth rope now, hand under hand.

The dense crowd in the street below was quick to realize that something new and tragic was on the cards.

A gasp of suspense went up as Dave slowly went down.

Many in the street uttered a silent prayer—for heroes are ever dear to the multitude.

Dave's task now was more dangerous than Dick's original undertaking had been.

The smoke was rolling up with ever increasing density.

"I'll close one eye, and save that to see Dick with," Darrin muttered grimly to himself.

So, with one eye closed tightly, Dave yet knew when the instant came to swing in and stand on the sill.

Opening the closed eye, Darrin sought to peer into the studio.

Such a gust of smoke came out at him that Darrin very nearly lost his balance from dizziness.

"I can't see a blessed thing in there," Dave muttered. So he sprang inside.

Now, quickly enough Dave stumbled over the prostrate figure of his unconscious comrade.

Fairly pouncing upon Prescott, Dave half raised that body, then dragged it to the window.

"Pull!" Darrin yelled up to Tom Reade, peering over the roof's edge.

Over the roar of the fire Dave's voice did not carry well, but his gesture was seen.

Reade gave the command, and the hoisting commenced, while Dave, standing at his post, though choking, and his brain reeling, swung Dick's feet clear of the sill.

Then the body began to go up quickly, while the crowd watched in greater awe than ever.

Dave Darrin leaped out upon the sill, holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils in order to protect his lungs as much as possible.

With the other hand Dave clutched at the window frame, for he had a fearful dread, now that he would lose his hold, his footing and plunge headlong into the street.

Dick's body disappeared over the roof edge.

After what seemed like a short age, but what was only a few moments, Reade again showed his face, dangling the noose in his hand.

Then he let it fall until it hung close to Darrin.

Reade and the crowd alike watched breathlessly, while Dave Darrin, fumbling, almost blindly, tried to slip the noose over his head and adjust it under his shoulders.

Once he let go of the rope, half swaying out into the street.

A cry of terror went up from the spectators below.

Tom Reade carefully swung the rope back again. Dave caught it. After it had seemed as though he must fail Dave at last adjusted the noose under his armpits.

"All right!" bellowed Tom Reade, making a trumpet of his hands.

Darrin answered only by a tug on the rope. Then he hung in mid air as the hoisting began.

At that moment a new sound cane on the air. The fire department, with a short circuit somewhere in its wires, had at last been notified by telephone, and the box number was pealing out on two church bells.

Barely were Dave's feet clear of the top of the window casing when a draught drove the flames out.

His shoes were almost licked by the red tongues.

"Hurry, you hoisters!" bellowed a man in the street.

His voice did not carry, but Tom Reade and his wearied helpers were doing all that could be done by strong, willing hands.

Another and longer tongue of flame leaped out through the shattered window, and again Dave's swinging feet were all but bathed in fire.

"Thank heaven we've got you up here, old fellow!" panted Tom Reade fervently, as Dave was hauled over the roof's edge, helping himself a little.

Dave, as soon as the noose had been slipped over his head, got up on his feet, though he staggered a bit dizzily.

"We must all get back up to that roof," ordered Dave, pointing to the roof down from which they had leaped a while before.

"We can't," retorted Reade. "We'll have to wait for the firemen and their ladders."

"Ladders—nothing!" retorted Dave, though his voice was weak and husky. "We'll make our own ladders. You, Holmes, get over against that wall. Hazelton, you beside hind Reade you climb up onto their shoulders. Now, Dan you climb up on Reade's shoulders, and you'll reach that roof up there!"

Darrin's orders were quickly carried out. This trick of wall scaling was really not difficult for football men in daily practice. Dan's head was quickly above the gutter of the next roof. He pulled himself over the edge.

"Stand by to catch the rope, Dan," shouted Dave. "Throw it to him, Tom."

Whizz-zz! whirr-rr! That rope was over the edge and in Dan's hands. Dalzell raced to a chimney, taking two or three turns around and making fast.

"Come on!" he called down.

Harry Hazelton ascended the rope hand over hand, Reade following. Then Greg Holmes went up.

Dave, in the meantime, was preparing the apparently lifeless Grace Dodge for the ascent. As he gave the signal those on the roof above hauled away.

Grace was soon in a position of safety.

Then Dick, who had not, as yet, revived, was hoisted.

"Now, we'll haul you up," called down Reade.

"Forget it," mocked Darrin. "Toss down the rope and I'll use my own muscles."

So Dave joined them and stood beside them on the roof.

"Now, we'd better make the street as soon as we can," Darrin advised. "The one who's strongest pick up Miss Dodge, and another stand by for relief. Two of you will have to tote Dick. I wish I could help, but I'm afraid my strength is 'most all out."

Dave, however, led the way. By the time that the little party had descended two flights they were met by firemen rushing up. After that the task of reaching the street was easy.

As the rescuers and rescued came out upon the street the crowd, now driven back beyond police lines, started to cheer.

But Dave's hand, held up, acted as a silencer. Dick and Miss Dodge were carried to a neighboring drug store for attention.

Now the firemen tried to run up ladders to the studio floor, with a view to fighting the flames by turning the stream on through the windows. Flames drove them back. The on-lookers were quick to grasp the fact that had no one acted before the arrival of the firemen, Grace Dodge would have been lost indeed. As it was, the fire fighters were obliged to fight the fire from the roof of the next building.

The office building in which the flames had started was almost gutted before the blaze was subdued.

An hour later Grace Dodge was placed in an automobile and carried to her home, a physician accompanying her.

She had revived for a brief period, but had again sunk into unconsciousness. Whether her life could be saved was a matter of the gravest doubt.

And Dick?

Young Prescott was revived soon enough, after expert assistance had been secured.

Yet he had swallowed more of the overheated air than had the girl.

In the minds of the medical men there was a grave doubt as to whether his lungs could be fully restored—or whether he would be doomed to a spell of severe lung trouble, ending, most likely, in death at a later day!

Scores of people turned back from that fire with tears in their eyes.

They had seen this day something that they would remember all their lives.

"Dick and Dave were wondering whether they had courage enough for the military service," sobbed Laura Bentley, in the privacy of Belles room. "They have courage enough for anything!"

Dick was up and about the next day, though he did not go to school.

Moreover, later reports placed him out of serious danger. The football squad was gloomy enough, however. Their star left end man would not be in shape for the big Thanksgiving Day game.

XXII. THE THANKSGIVING DAY GAME

Say, you're a great one, Prescott, to throw us down in this way," chaffed Drayne, as Dick strolled into dressing quarters.

"Oh, come, now!" broke in Darrin impatiently. "It's bad enough, Drayne, to have to play side partner to you in the biggest game in the year, without having to listen to your fat-headed criticism of better men."

Drayne flushed, and might have retorted, had not Wadleigh broken in, in measured tones, yet with much significance in his voice:

"Yes, Drayne; cut out all remarks until you've made good. Of course you are going to make good, but talk will sound better after deeds."

Most of the fellows who were togging were uneasy.

They wanted, with all their hearts, to win this day's game. First of all, the game was needed in order to preserve their record for unbroken victories. Then again, Filmore High School was a team worth beating at any time and Filmore boosters had been making free remarks about a Gridley Waterloo.

So there was a feeling of general depression in dressing quarters.

Dick Prescott, with his dashing, crafty, splendid, score-making work at left end, had become a necessity to the Gridley eleven.

"It's the toughest luck that ever happened," grumbled Hazelton, right guard, to Holmes, right tackle. "And I don't believe Drayne is in anything like condition, either."

"Now, see here, you two," broke in Captain Wadleigh behind them, as he gripped an arm of either boy, "no croaking. We can't afford it."

"We can't afford anything," grinned Hazelton uneasily.

"Oh, of course, we're going to win today—Gridley simply has to win," added Holmes hastily.

"Yes; you two look as though you had the winning streak on," growled Wadleigh, in a low voice. "For goodness' sake come out of your daze!"

"Do you think yourself that Drayne is fit?" demanded Hazelton.

"He's the fittest man we have that can play left end," retorted Wadleigh.

"Knocking, are you?" demanded Drayne, coming up behind them. "Nice fellows you are!"

"Oh, now, see here, Drayne, no bad blood," urged Wadleigh. He spoke authoritatively, yet coaxingly, too. "Remember, we've got to keep all our energies for one thing today."

"Well, I'm mighty glad you two don't play on my end of the line," sneered Drayne, looking at Hazelton and Holmes with undisguised hostility.

"Cut it, Drayne. And don't you two talk back, either," warned Wadleigh sternly.

"Oh, acknowledge the corn, Drayne," broke in Hudson, with what he meant for good humor. "Just say you're no good and let it go at that."

There was a dead silence, for an instant, broken by one unidentified fellow, muttering in a voice that sounded like a roar in the silence:

"Drayne? Humph!"

"There you go! That's what all of you are saying to yourselves!" cried Drayne angrily. "For some reason you idiots seem to think I'm in no shape today. Hang it, I'm sorry I agreed to play. For two cents I wouldn't play."

"Drayne can be bought off cheaply, can't he?" remarked one of the fellows.

The last speaker did not intend that his voice should reach Drayne, but it did.

"Say, you fellows all have a grouch on, just because I'm playing today!" quivered the victim of the remarks. "Oh, well, never mind I'll cure your grouch, then!"

Seating himself on a locker box, Drayne began to unfasten the lacings of his shoes.

"Here, man! What are you doing?" demanded Captain Wadleigh, bounding forward angrily.

"Curing the grouch of this bunch," retorted Drayne sulkily.

"Man alive, there's no time to fool with your shoes now!" warned the team captain.

"I'm not going to need this pair," Drayne rejoined. "Street shoes will do for me today."

"Not on the gridiron!"

"I'm not going on the field. I've heard enough knocking," grumbled Drayne.

A dozen of the fellows crowded about, consternation written in their faces.

Prescott was known not to be fit to play. Only the day before Dr. Bentley had refused to pass him for the game. Hence Drayne, even if a trifle out of condition, was still the best available man for left end.

"Quit your fooling, Drayne!" cried two or three at once.

"Quit your talking," retorted Drayne, kicking off his other field shoe. "I've done all my talking."

Truth to tell, Drayne still intended to play, but he wanted to teach these fellows a lesson. He intended to make them beg, from Wadleigh down, before he would go on to the finish of his togging. Drayne knew when he had the advantage of them.

"Don't be a fool, Drayne," broke in Hudson hotly.

"Or a traitor to your school," added another.

"Be a man!"

In Drayne's present frame of mind all these appeals served to fan his inward fury.

"Shut up, all of you!" he snapped. "I've listened to all the roasting I intend to stand. I'm out of the game!"

Several looked blankly at "Hen" Wadleigh.

"Whom have you to put in his place?" Grayson demanded hoarsely.

Drayne heard and it was balm to his soul. He started to pull off his football trousers.

Outside, the band started upon a lively gallop. The crowd began to cheer. It started in as a Gridley cheer. Then, above everything else, rang the Filmore yell of defiance.

Just at this moment Coach Morton strode into the room. Almost in a twinkling he learned of the new complication that had arisen.

"Captain Wadleigh, who is to play in Drayne's stead" demanded the coach rather briskly.

"Under certain conditions," broke in Wayne, "I'll agree to play."

"We wouldn't have you under all the conditions in the world!" retorted Mr. Morton. "A football eleven must be an organization of the finest discipline!"

Drayne reddened, then went deathly white. He hadn't intended to let the matter go this far.

"Who is your best man for left end, captain?" insisted Mr. Morton. "You've got to decide like a flash. Your men ought to be out in the air now."

There was a blank pause, while "Hen" Wadleigh looked around over his subs.

"Will you let me play?"

There was a start. Every fellow in the room turned around to stare at the speaker.

It was Dick Prescott, who started eagerly forward, his face aglow with eagerness.

"You, Prescott?" cried Mr. Morton. "But only yesterday Dr. Bentley reported that your lungs had not sufficiently recovered."

"I know, sir," Dick laughed coolly; "but that was yesterday.

"It would be foolhardy, my boy. If you went out on the field, and any exceptional strain came up, you might do an injury to your lungs."

"Mr. Morton," replied the team's left end, very quietly, "I'm willing to go out on the field—and do all that's in me, for old Gridley—if it's the last act of my life."

"Your hand, Prescott!" cried Mr. Morton, gripping the boy's palm. "That's the right spirit of grit and loyalty. But it wouldn't be right to let you do it. It isn't necessary, or human, to pay a life for a game."

"Will you let me go on the field if Dr. Bentley passes me today?" queried Prescott.

"But he won't."

"Try him."

Mr. Morton nodded, and some one ran out and passed the word for Dr. Bentley, who acted as medical director in the School's athletics.

Within two minutes the physician entered dressing quarters.

Coach Morton stated Prescott's request.

"Absurd," declared Dr. Bentley.

"Will you examine me, sirs" insisted Prescott.

With a sigh the old physician opened his satchel, taking out a stethoscope and some other instruments.

"Strip to the waist," he ordered tersely.

Many eager hands stretched out to aid Dick in his task.

In a few moments the young athlete, the upper half of his body bared, stood before the medical examiner. For his height, weight and age Prescott was surely a fine picture of physical strength.

But Dr. Bentley, with the air and the preformed bias of a professional skeptic, went all over the boy's torso, starting with a prolonged examination of the heart action and its sounds.

"You find the arterial pressure steady and sound, don't you," asked Dick Prescott?

"Hm!" muttered Dr. Bentley. "Now, take a full breath and hold it."

Thump! thump! thump! went the doctor's forefinger against the back of his other hand, as he explored all the regions of Dick's chest.

A dozen more tests followed.

"What do you think, Doctor?" asked Mr. Morton.

"Hm! The young man recovers with great rapidity. If he goes into a mild game he'll stand it all right. If it turns out to be a rough game——"

"Then I'll fare as badly as the rest, won't I, Doctor?" laughed Dick. "Thank you for passing me, sir. I'll get into my togs at once."

"But I haven't said that I passed you."

Dick, however, feigned not to hear this. He was rushing to his locker, from which he began to haul the various parts of his rig.

"Is it a crime to let young Prescott go on the field?" asked Coach Morton anxiously.

"No," replied Dr. Bentley hesitatingly. "It might be a greater crime to keep him off the gridiron today. Men have been known to die of grief."

Probably a football player never had more assistance in togging up for a game. Those who couldn't get in close enough to help Dick dress growled at the others for keeping them out.

"You seem uneasy, Coach," murmured Captain Wadleigh, aside.

"I am."

"I can't believe, sir, that a careful man like Dr. Bentley would let Prescott go on at left end today, if there was good reason why Prescott shouldn't. As we know, from the past, Dick Prescott has wonderful powers of recuperation."

"If Prescott should go to pieces, Captain, whom will you put forward in his places"

"Dalzell, sir. He's speedy, even if not as clever as Prescott or Drayne."

"I'm glad you've been looking ahead, Captain. Out I hope Prescott will hold out, and suffer no injury whatever from this day's work."

Was Dick anxious? Not the least in the world. He was care free—jubilant. The Gridley spirit possessed him. He was going to hold out, and the eleven was going to win its game. That was all there was to it, or all there could be.

In the first two or three days after his injury at the fire Dick had traveled briefly in the dark valley of physical despair.

To be crippled or ill, to be physically useless—the thought filled him with horror.

Then young Prescott had taken a good grip on himself. Out of despair proceeded determination not to allow his lungs to go down before the assault of smoke and furnace-like air.

Grace Dodge was not, as yet, well on the way to recovery, but Dick Prescott, with his strong will power, and the grit that came of Gridley athletics, was now togging hastily to play in the great game—though he had not, as yet, returned to school after his disaster.

Out near the grandstand the band crashed forth for the tenth time. Gridley High School bannerets waved by the hundreds. Yet Filmore, too, had her hosts of boosters here today, and their yells all but drowned out the spirited music.

"Here come our boys! Gridley! Gridley! Gridley! Wow-ow-ow!"

"Hurrah!"

Then the home boosters, who had read Drayne's name on the score card took another look at their cards—next rubbed their eyes.

"Prescott at left end!" yelled one frenzied booster. "Whoop!"

Then the Gridley bannerets waved like a surging sea of color. The band, finishing its strain, started in again, not waiting for breath.

"Prescott, after all, on left end!"

Home boosters were still cheering wildly by the time that Captain Pike, of Filmore High School, had won the toss and the teams were lining, up.

Silence did not fall until just the instant before the ball was put in play.

Drayne, with his headgear pulled down over his eyes, and skulking out beside the grand stand, soon began to feel a savage satisfaction.

Something must be ailing the left end man after all, for Dick did not seem able to get through the Filmore line with his usual brilliant tactics.

Instead, after ten minutes of furious play, Filmore forced Gridley to make a safety. Then again the ball was forced down toward Gridley's goal line, and at last pushed over.

Gridley hearts, over on the grand stand and bleacher seats, were beating with painful rapidity. What ailed the home boys? Or were the Filmore youths, as they themselves fondly imagined, the gridiron stars of the school world! Filmore, like Gridley, had a record of no defeats so far this season.

It was a hard pill for Captain Wadleigh and his men to swallow.

In the interval between the halves the local band played, but the former dash was now noticeably absent from its music.

The Gridley colors drooped.

XXIII. SULKER AND REAL MAN

Dave Darrin glanced covertly, though anxiously, at his chum.

Was Dick really unfit to play? Dave wondered.

It was not that Prescott had actually failed in any quick bit of individual or team play that he had been signaled to perform. But Darrin wondered if Dick could really be anything like up to the mark.

During the interval Captain Wadleigh went quietly among his men, murmuring a word of counsel here and there.

Nothing in Wadleigh's face or tone betrayed worry; intense earnestness alone was stamped on his bearing.

"Now, remember, fellows, don't get a spirit of defense grafted on you," were Wadleigh's last words before the second half began. "Remember, its to be a general assault all the time. If you get on the defensive nothing can save us from losing."

No sooner was the ball in motion than Gridley's line bore down upon the enemy. So determined was the assault that Filmore found itself obliged to give ground, stubbornly, for a while. Yet Captain Pike's men were not made of stuff that is easily whipped. After the first five minutes Pike's men got the ball and began to drive it a few yards, and then a few yards more, over into Gridley's territory.

As the minutes slipped by the ball went nearer and nearer to Gridley's goal line. Another touchdown must soon result.

Twice Pike tried to throw the ball around the left end. Wadleigh, Hudson, Darrin and Prescott, backed by quarter and left half, presented such a stubborn block that the ball did not get another yard clown the field in two plays. But Pike, who was a hammerer, made a third attempt around that left end. This time he gained but two feet, and the ball passed to Gridley.

Of course, after having had its left wing so badly haltered Gridley was bound to try to work the ball through Filmore's right. As Wadleigh's signals crisped out, the Gridley players threw themselves out for a play to right.

Quarter received the ball, starting fiercely to the right. Left half dashed past quarter, receiving the ball and carrying it straight to Dick Prescott. For a moment this blind succeeded so admirably, that even those on the grand stand did not see the ball given to Prescott, but believed that quarter was rushing the ball over to the right.

Then, like a flash, the trick dawned.

Dick Prescott had the oval, and was running with it like a whirlwind, with Darrin and Hudson as his interference, and with quarter dashing close behind them.

Dick sprinted around the first Filmore man, leaving his interference to sweep the fellows over.

At Filmore's second attempt to tackle, Dick ducked low and escaped. In the next instant the would-be tackler was bowled over by Darrin and Hudson, and Dick swept on with the ball.

By this time all the home boosters were on their feet, yelling like so many Comanches.

Filmore's half and full contrived a trap that caught young Prescott, and carried him down with the ball—but this happened at Filmore's forty-five-yard line!

In the next play, Dave had the ball, on a short pass, but with Dick dashing along close to his side, and Hudson on the other flank. Before Darrin went down on the ball it had been carried to Filmore's thirty-yard line. Then it went beyond the twenty-five-yard line, and Gridley still carried the pigskin.

"Dick's coming up, all right," proudly muttered Darrin to Hudson, while the next snapback was forming.

"It's putting nerve into all of us," rejoined Hudson.

The pigskin was only fourteen yards from the Filmore goal line when Captain Wadleigh's men had to see the ball go to Filmore. Pike's men, however, failed to make good on downs, so the oval came back into Wadleigh's possession.

Now, the play was swift and brilliant. Dick got the ball around the left end once, and afterwards assisted Dave to put it through the hostile line. With the third play Dick carried the pigskin barely across Filmore's goal line and scored a touchdown. Darrin immediately after made a kick for goal.

The score now stood eight to six for Filmore but only ten minutes of playing time remained.

"Our fellows have saved a whitewash, and that's all," reflected Drayne. "They'd have done better with me, and I guess Wadleigh knows it by this time."

"Slug's the word," Pike passed around, swiftly. "No fouling, but use your weight, dash and speed. Slam these Gridley rubes. Hammer em!"

"Come on, now Gridley!" rang the imploring request from the home boosters, who were now too restless to keep to their seats.

"Remember your record so far this season!"

"Forceful playing, but keep cool. Use your Judgment to the last, and put a lot of speed and doggedness behind your science," was Wadleigh's adjuration.

Those who followed form most close, now had their eyes on young Prescott.

If he went to pieces that would leave Gridley weak at what had usually been its strongest point, especially in attack.

And Gridley had the ball again. But what ailed Captain Wadleigh, the boosters wondered? For he was now sending the ball to the right wing, as if admitting that Prescott must not be worked too hard.

"Use Prescott!" shouted one man hoarsely.

"Prescott! Prescott!"

"Yah! Dot's all right. Vot you t'ink Wadleigh has ein head for' Leafe him und Bresgott alone, and dey hand you der game a minute in!" bawled the deep bass voice of Herr Schimmelpodt who, nearly alone of the Gridley boosters, believed that the home team needed no grand stand coaching.

"But they've only eight minutes left," grumbled the man sitting to the left of Herr Schimmelpodt.

"Yah! Dot's all right, too," retorted the German. "Battles haf been won in less than eight minutes. Read history!"

In two plays Captain Wadleigh had succeeded in advancing the pigskin less than two yards down the Filmore territory.

But now hats were thrown up in the air, and frantic yells resounded when it was discovered that Dick had the ball again, and that Darrin, Hudson, Wadleigh, quarter and left half were fighting valiantly to push him through the stubborn, panting line of Filmore High School.

It was a splendid fight, but a losing one. Filmore was massing all its weight, wind and brawn, and Gridley lost the ball on downs.

An involuntary groan went up from the Gridley spectators.

Five and a half minutes left, and the ball in the enemy's hands! That settled the game.

The musicians looked at their leader, before taking the music from their instrument racks.

"Keep your music on," called the leader. "We of Gridley are sportsmen enough to play the victors off the field."

The play was quicker and snappier than ever. All the young men on both sides were using their last reserves of strength and wind. Pike was making a ferocious effort to get the ball back and over Gridley's goal line.

But Pike lost, after three plays, and Wadleigh's men again grabbed the pigskin.

"Barely two minutes!" groaned the Gridley spectators, watches in hand.

Dick was seen glancing at Wadleigh and shaking his head almost imperceptibly. But a hundred people on the grand stand saw that tiny shake, and, most of all, Pike took it in.

Wadleigh, before bending low over the ball held up thumb and forefinger of his right hand, formed in a circle, for a brief instant. That sign meant:

"Emergency signal code!"

Then he bent over to snap the ball back, and the figures that shot from quarter-back's chest carried different values from those that any enemy could guess.

"Eight—eleven—four—ten!"

Then the ball went back to quarter, who started from a crouch without straightening up.

Gridley's whole attack seemed to swing to the right. Wadleigh, himself, from half-facing to right, took a long step toward right wing; then wheeled like a flash, and went plowing, onward, to the left.

Quarter, after the start, and ere Filmore could break through, had passed the ball to half, who, on a wild sprint, had passed it to Dick Prescott.

And now Dick was racing out around Filmore's right end, backed by a crushing interference of which Wadleigh was the center. Darrin, with head high, was watching for every chance at legitimate interference. Behind them all, quarter and left half pounded and pushed.

An instant and Dick was free and around Filmore's end. Now, he dashed into the race of his life!

Wadleigh sent a man sprawling. Dave's elbow did something to Filmore's right tackle. Just what it was none of the spectators could see. But none of the field officials interfered so it must have been legitimate.

After a fight and a short, brilliant run, Dick was tackled by Filmore's fullback.

One quivering instant—then Wadleigh and Hudson bumped that fullback so hard that he went down, Dick wriggling safely away and bounding toward Filmore's goal.

With fire in their eyes, Gridley's center and left wing swept on.

Dick Prescott was over the goal line, bending and holding the ball down! Then, indeed, the crowd broke loose all except the few hundreds from Filmore.

Was it a touchdown? That was the question that all asked themselves. It was so close to the line that many onlookers were in doubt, and stood staring with all their eyes.

But the ball went back for the kick, and that settled all doubts.

Dave made the kick, and lost it—but who cared?

A moment later and the whistle blew—the second half was over—the game finished.

Filmore had bitten the dust to the song of eleven to eight.

Dick's tiny head shake had been a piece of strategy prearranged with Wadleigh. It was a legitimate ruse, as honest as any other piece of football strategy intended to throw the enemy "off".

Now the band was indeed thundering out, playing in its best strain.

All restraint thrown aside, the spectators surged over the lines and out on the gridiron, making a rush for the heated but happy home players.

The record had been kept—a season without a game lost. Filmore swallowed its chagrin and went home.

Dick? He had helped nobly to save the game and the record, but now he was exhausted.

Over in dressing quarters two of the subs were rubbing him down, while Dr. Bentley and Coach Morton stood anxiously by.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

After a few days Prescott was back at school. It was noted, however, that he did not take any part in gym. work, and that he spoke even more quietly than usual, but he kept up in his recitations.

Youth is the period of quick recovery. That the Thanksgiving Day game had strained the young left end there was no doubt. Within a fortnight, however, Prescott was himself again, taking his gym. work, and a cross-country run three times a week.

"We ought to give Drayne the school cut," hinted Grayson. "He behaved in an abominable way right at the beginning of the critical game. He's a traitor."

"Give Drayne the cut?" repeated Wadleigh, slowly, before a group of the fellows. "Perhaps, in one way, he deserved it, but——"

"Well, what can you find to say for a fellow who acted like that?" demanded Hudson, impatiently.

"Drayne helped to win the game for us," replied Wadleigh moderately. "Had he played Filmore would have downed us—of that I'm sure, as I look back. Drayne's conduct put Prescott on the gridiron, didn't it? That was what saved the score for us."

At the time of Grace Dodge's great peril, her banker father had been away on a business trip. It was two days later when word was finally gotten to the startled parent. Then, by wire, Theodore Dodge learned that Grace's condition was all right, needing only care and time. So he did not hasten back on that account.

When he did return to Gridley, Mr. Dodge hunted up Lawyer Ripley.

"I must reward those boys, and handsomely," he explained to the lawyer. "Their splendid conduct demands it."

"I am sorry, Dodge, that you have been so long in coming to such a conclusion," replied the lawyer, almost coldly.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you still owe Prescott and Darrin that thousand dollars offered by your family as a reward for finding you when your misfortune happened."

"But my son, Bert——"

"Is the bitter enemy of young Prescott, who is one of the manliest young fellows ever reared in Gridley."

"But my wife has also opposed my paying the reward," argued Mr. Dodge. "She declares that the two boys were out on a jaunt and just stumbled upon me."

"Your wife, like all good mothers, is much inclined to take the part of her own son," rejoined Lawyer Ripley. "However, at the time Prescott and Darrin found you, they were not out on a jaunt. They were serving 'The Blade,' and I happen to know that the young men did some remarkably good detective work in trailing and rescuing you. They started fair and even with the police, but they beat the police at the latter's own game. Dodge, by every consideration of right and justice, you owe that reward to Prescott and Darrin! If they had not found and rescued you, you might not be here today. There is no telling what might have happened to you had you been left helpless less in the custody of the pair of scoundrels who had you in that shack. I repeat that you owe that thousand dollars as fairly as you ever owed a penny in your life"

"Well, then, I'll pay it," assented Theodore Dodge reluctantly, after some hesitation. "I am afraid my wife will oppose it, however."

"You can tell Mrs. Dodge just what I've said, or I'll tell her, if you prefer."

"Will you attend, Ripley, to rewarding all the boys for their gallant conduct in rescuing my daughter."

"Yes; if you'll leave the matter wholly in my hands, and agree not to interfere"

Theodore Dodge agreed to this, and Lawyer Ripley went ahead. The legal gentleman, however had a more difficult time than he had expected. It took a lot of argument, and more than one meeting, to make Dick & Co. agree to accept anything whatever.

It was at last settled, however, Mr. Ripley urging upon the young men that they had no right to slight their own future prospects or education by refusing to "lay by" money to which they were honestly entitled, when it cane in the form of an earned reward from a citizen amply able to pay the reward.

So Dick and Dave received that thousand dollars, which, of course, they divided evenly.

In addition, each member of Dick & Co. received one hundred dollars for his prompt and gallant work in rescuing Grace Dodge from death.

Of course Bert, away at private school with Bayliss, heard all about the rescue. It is not a matter of record, however, that Bert ever wrote a letter thanking any member of Dick & Co. for saving his sister.

XXV. POSTSCRIPT

When the next commencement swung around Fred Ripley, who had managed to "go straight" all through his senior year, was among those graduated. What became of him will yet be learned by our readers in another volume.

There are a host of other Gridley fellows also to be accounted for.

Their part in the subsequent history of Gridley, and of the world in general, will also yet be told, all in the proper place.

"Prin.," too, may yet come in for some attention.

Dick & Co. did not take part in basket ball nor any of the organized winter athletics though they kept constantly in training. But these young men realized that the High School is, first of all, a place for academic training; so, after the football season had ended so gloriously, they went back to their books with renewed vigor.

Laura and Belle, as they neared the end of their junior year, went almost from girlhood into womanhood, as is the way with girls.

Yet neither Miss Meade nor Miss Bentley found Dick or Dave "too young" for their frank, girlish admiration.

"You see, Dick, that we were quite right about you and Dave having all the grit that goes with the highest needs of the military profession," Laura remarked. "Your conduct at the fire shows the stuff that would be displayed by Dick & Co. in leading a charge in battle, if need be."

"I guess a reasonable amount of courage, under stress, is the possession of nearly all members of the human race," laughed young Prescott.

Here we shall leave our Gridley friends for a short time. We shall meet them all again, however, in the forthcoming and final volume of this series, which will be published under the title:

"The High School Captain of the Team; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard."

In this new volume we shall see more of the boys' qualities in leadership.

Before we meet our popular boys in high school again the reader will find the long succession of wonderful events of their summer vacation following their junior year in the last two volumes of the "High School Boys' Vacation Series", which are published under the titles, "The High School Boys' Fishing Trip; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness," and "The High School Boys Training Hike; Or, Making Themselves 'Hard as Nails.'"

These two narratives of a real vacation of real American boys are bound to please the many friends of Dick & Co. Be sure to read them.

THE END

THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM

or

Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard

CONTENTS

I. "Kicker" Drayne Revolts

II. A Hint from the Girls

III. Putting the Tag on the Sneak

IV. The Traitor Gets His Deserts

V. "Brass" for an Armor Plate

VI. One of the Fallen

VII. Dick Meets the Boy-With-A-Kick

VIII. Dick Puts "A Better Man" in His Place

IX. Could Dave Make Good?

X. Leading the Town to Athletics

XI. The "King Deed" of Daring

XII. The Nerve of the Soldier

XIII. Dick Begins to Feel Old

XIV. Fordham Plays the Gentleman's Game

XV. "We'll Play the Gentleman's Game"

XVI. Gridley's Last Charge

XVII. The Long Gray Column

XVIII. The Would-Be Candidates

XIX. Tom Reade Bosses the Job

XX. When the Great News was Given Out

XXI. Gridley Seniors Whoop It Up

XXII. The Message From the Unknown

XXIII. The Plight of the Innocent

XXIV. Dave Gives Points to the Chief of Police

XXV. Conclusion

I. "KICKER" DRAYNE REVOLTS

"I'm going to play quarter-back," declared Drayne stolidly.

"You?" demanded Captain Dick Prescott, looking at the aspirant in stolid wonder.

"Of course," retorted Drayne. "It's the one position I'm best fitted for of all on the team."

"Do you mean that you're better fitted for that post than anyone else on the team?" inquired Prescott. "Or that it's the position that best fits your talents?"

"Both," replied Drayne.

Dick Prescott glanced out over Gridley High School's broad athletic field.

A group of the middle men of the line, and their substitutes, had gathered around Coach Morton.

On another part of the field Dave Darrin was handling a squad of new football men, teaching how to rush in and tackle the swinging lay figure.

Still others, under Greg Holmes, were practicing punt kicks.

Drayne's face was flushed, and, though he strove to hide the fact, there was an anxious look there.

"I didn't quite understand, Drayne," continued the young captain of the team, "that you were to take a very important part this year."

"Pshaw! I'd like to know why I'm not," returned the other boy hotly.

"I think that is regarded as being the general understanding," continued Dick. He didn't like this classmate, yet he hated to give offense or to hurt the other's feelings in any way.

"The general understanding?" repeated Drayne hotly. "Then I can tell the man who started that understanding."

"I think I can, too," Prescott answered, smiling patiently.

"It was you, Dick Prescott! You, the leader of Dick & Co., a gang that tries to boss everything in the High School!

"Cool down a bit," advised young Prescott coolly. "You know well enough that the little band of chums who have been nicknamed Dick & Co. don't try to run things in the High School. You know, too, Drayne, if you'll be honest about it, that my chums and I have sometimes sacrificed our own wishes to what seemed to be the greatest good of the school."

"Then who is the man who has worked to put me on the shelf in football?" insisted the other boy, eyeing Dick menacingly.

"Yourself, Drayne!"

"What are you talking about?" cried Drayne, more angry than before.

"Don't be blind, Drayne," continued the young captain. "And don't be silly enough to pretend that you don't know just what I mean. You remember last Thanksgiving Day?"

"Oh, that?" said Drayne, contemptuously. "Just because I wouldn't do just what you fellows wished me to do?

"I was there," pursued Captain Prescott, "and I heard all that was said, saw all that was done. There was nothing unreasonable asked of you. Some of the fellows were a good bit worried as to whether you were really in shape for the game, and they talked about it among themselves. They didn't intend you to over hear, but you did, and you took offense. The next thing we knew, you were hauling off your togs in hot temper, and telling us that you wouldn't play. You did this in spite of the fact that we were about to play the last and biggest game of the season."

"I should say I wouldn't play, under such circumstances! Nor would you, Prescott, had the same thing happened to you."

"I have had worse things happen to me," replied Dick coolly. "I have been hectored to pieces, at times, both on the baseball and football teams. The hectoring has even gone so far that I have had to fight, more than once. But never sulked in dressing quarters and refused to go on the field."

"No!" taunted Drayne. "And a good reason why. You craved to get out, always, and make grand stand plays!"

"I suppose I'm as fond of applause from the grand stand as any other natural fellow," laughed Dick good-humoredly. "But I'll tell you one thing, Drayne: I never hear a murmur of what comes from the grand stand until the game is over. I play for the success of the team to which I belong, and listening to applause would take my mind off the plays. But, candidly, what the fellows have against you, is that you're a quitter. You throw down your togs at a critical moment, and tell us you won't play, just because your fearfully sensitive feelings have been hurt. Now, a sportsman doesn't do that."

"Oh, it's all right for you to take on that mighty superior air, and try to lecture me," retorted Drayne gruffly.

"I'm not lecturing you. But the fellows chose me to lead the team this year, and the captain is the spokesman of the team. He also has to attend to its disagreeable business. Don't blame me, Drayne, and don't blame anyone else——"

"Captain Prescott!" sounded the low, but clean-cut, penetrating voice of Mr. Morton, submaster and football coach of the Gridley High School.

"Coming, sir!" answered Dick promptly.

Then he added, to Drayne:

"Just blame your own conduct for the decision that was reached by coach and myself after listening to the instructions of the alumni Athletics Committee."

Dick moved away at a loping run, for football practice was limited to an hour and a half in an afternoon, and he knew there was no time to be frittered.

"Oh, you sneak!" quivered Drayne, clenching his hands as he scowled at the back of the captain. "It was you who brought up the old dispute. It is you who are keeping me from any decent chance this last year of mine in the High School. I won't stand it! I'll shake the dust from my feet on this crowd. I won't remain in the squad, just for a possible chance to sub in some small game!"

His face still hot with what he considered righteous indignation, Drayne felt better as soon as he had decided to shake the crowd.

In an instant, however, he changed his mind. A sly, exultant look came into his eyes.

"On second thought I believe I won't quit," he grinned to himself. "I'll stay—I'll drill—and I'll get good and square with this cheap crowd, captained by a cheap man! Gridley hasn't lost a game in years. Well, you chaps shall lose more than one game this year! I'll teach you! I'll make this a year that shall never be forgotten by humbled Gridley pride!"

Just what Phin Drayne was planning will doubtless be made plain ere long.

Readers of the preceding volumes in this series are already familiar with nearly all the people, young and old, of both sexes, whom they are now to meet again. In the first volume, "The High School Freshmen," our readers became acquainted with Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, six young chums who, back in their days in the Central Grammar School Gridley, had become fast friends, and had become known as Dick & Co.

These chums played together, planned together, entered all sports together. They were inseparable. All were manly young fellows. When they entered Gridley High School, and caught the fine High School spirit prevailing there, they made the honor of the school even more important than their own companionship.

In the first year at High School the boys, being mere freshmen, could not expect to enter any of the school's athletic teams. Yet, as our readers know, Dick and his friends found many a quiet way to boost local interest and pride in High School athletics. Dick & Co. also indulged in many merry and startlingly novel pranks. Dick secured an amateur position as space reporter on "The Blade," the morning newspaper of the little city, and was assigned, among other things, to look after the news end of the transactions of the Board of Education. The "influence" that young Prescott secured in that way doubtless saved him from having grave trouble, or being expelled when, owing to Dr. Thornton's ill-health, Abner Cantwell, a man with an uncontrollable temper, came temporarily to the principal's chair. To everybody's great delight, at the beginning of this their senior year, Dr. Thornton had returned to his position fully restored to his former vigor and health.

In "The High School Pitcher" Dick & Co., then sophomores, were shown in some fine work with the Gridley High School nine, and Dick had serious, even dangerous, Trouble, with mean, treacherous enemies that he made.

In "The High School Left End," Dick & Co., juniors, made their real entrance into High School athletics by securing places in the school football eleven. It was in this year that there occurred the famous strife between the "soreheads" and their enemies, whom the former termed the "muckers." The "soreheads" were the sons of certain aristocratic families who resolved to secede from football in case any of the members of Dick & Co. or of other poor Gridley families, were allowed to make places on the team. As the group of "soreheads" contained a few young men who were really absolutely necessary to the success of the Gridley High School football eleven, the strife threatened to put Gridley in the back row as far as football went.

But Dick, with his characteristic vigor, went after the "soreheads" in the columns of "The Blade." He covered them with ridicule and scorn so that the citizens of the town began to take a hand in the matter as soon as their public pride was aroused.

The "soreheads" were driven, then, to apply for places in the football squad. Only those most needed, however, had been admitted, and the rest had retired in sullen admission of defeat.

Two of the latter, Bayliss and Bert Dodge, carried matters so far, however, that they were actually forced out of the High School and left Gridley to go to a preparatory school elsewhere.

The hostile attempts of young Ripley, of Dodge, Drayne and others to injure Dick & Co. have been fully related in the four volumes of the "High School Boys' Vacation Series." This series deals with the good times enjoyed by Dick & Co. during their first three summers as high school boys. These stories are replete with summer athletics, and a host of exciting adventures. The four volumes of this Vacation Series are published under the titles: "The High School Boys' Canoe Club," "The High School Boys in Summer Camp," "The High School Boys Fishing Trip" and "The High School Boys' Training Hike."

This present year no "sorehead" movement had been attempted. Every student who honestly wanted to play football presented himself at the school gymnasium, on the afternoon named by Coach Morton for the call, including Drayne, who had been one of the original "soreheads." Drayne afterwards returned to the football fold, behaving with absurd childishness at the big Thanksgiving game, as our readers will recall.

Leaving Coach Morton, Captain Prescott hurried away to take charge of the practice.

"Come, Mr. Drayne!" called Coach Morton "Get into the tackling work, and be sure to mix it up lively."

"Just a moment, coach, if you please," begged Drayne.

"Well, Drayne?" asked Mr. Morton

"Captain Prescott has just been telling me that I'm to be only a sort of sub this year."

"Well, he's captain," replied the submaster.

"Huh! I thought it was all Prescott's fine work!" sneered Phin.

"You're wrong there, Mr. Drayne," rejoined the coach frankly. "As a matter of fact, it was I who suggested that you be cast for light work this year."

"Oh!" muttered Drayne

"Yes; if you feel like blaming anyone, blame me, not Prescott. You know, Drayne, you didn't behave very well last Thanksgiving Day."

"I admit that my behavior was unreasonable, sir. But you know, Mr. Morton, that I'm one of the valuable men."

"There's a crowd of valuable men this year, Drayne," smiled the submaster.

"On the strongest pledge that I can give you, Mr. Morton, will you allow me to play regular quarter-back this season?" begged the quitter of the year before.

"I would give the idea more thought if Prescott recommended it; but I doubt if he would," answered Mr. Morton slowly. "Personally, Drayne, I don't approve of putting you on strong this year. The quitter's reputation Drayne, is one that can't ever be really lived down, you know."

Though coach's manner was mild enough, there was look of the resolute eyes of this famous college athlete that made Phin Drayne realized how I hopeless it was to expect any consideration from him.

"All right then Mr. Morton," he replied huskily. "I'll do my best on a small showing, and take what comes to me."

Yet, as he walked slowly over to join the tacklers around the swinging figure, the hot blood came again to young Drayne's face.

"I'll make this year a year of sorrow Gridley!" he quivered indignantly. "I'll hang on, and make believe I'm meek as a lamb, but I'll spoil Gridley's record for this year! There was in olden times a chap who had a famous knack for getting square with people who used him the wrong way. I wish I could remember his name at this moment."

Drayne couldn't recall the name at the time, but another name that might have served Drayne to remember at this instant was—

Benedict Arnold.

II. A HINT FROM THE GIRLS

There had been nothing rapid in Dick Prescott's elevation to the captaincy of the eleven.

Back in the grammar school he had started his apprenticeship in athletics. During his freshman year in High School he had kept up his training. In his sophomore year he had trained hard for and had won honors in the baseball nine. In his junior year, after harder training that ever, he had performed a season's brilliant work, playing left end in all the biggest games of the season.

So now, in his senior and last year at Gridley High School he had come by degrees to the most envied of all possible positions in school athletics.

The election to the football captaincy had not been sought by Dick. In his junior year it had been offered to him, but he had declined it, feeling that Wadleigh, both by training and judgement, was better fitted to lead the eleven on the gridiron. But now, having reached his senior year, Dick was by far the best leader possible. Coach and football squad alike conceded it, and the Alumni Association's Athletics Committee had approved.

Dick Prescott had grown in years since first we saw him, but not in conceit. Like all who succeed in this world, he had a good degree of positiveness in his make-up; but from this he left out strong self-conceit. In all things, as in his school life, he was prepared to sacrifice himself along whatever lines pointed to the best good.

Dave Darrin, of all the chums, was nearly as well fitted as was Prescott to lead, though not quite. So Dave, with Dick's own kind of spirit, fell back willingly into second place. This year Dave was second captain of the eleven, ready to lead to victory if Dick should become incapacitated.

Beyond these, any of the four other chums were almost as well qualified for leadership. Ability to lead was strong in all the "partners" of Dick & Co.

While they were on the field that afternoon all of the six worked as though football were the sole subject on earth that interested them. That was the Gridley High School way, and it was the spirit that Coach Morton always succeeded in putting into worthy young men. Once back in dressing quarters, however, and under the shower baths, the talk turned but little on football.

As soon as they had rubbed down and dressed Dick & Co. went outside and started back to town—on foot. Time could be saved by taking the street car, but Dick and his friends believed that a brief walk, after the practice served to keep the kinks out of their joints and muscles.

"What ailed old Drayne this afternoon, Dick?" asked Tom Reade.

"Why, he told me that he had hoped to play quarter this season."

"Regular quarter?" demanded Dan Dalzell, opening his eyes very wide.

"That was what I gathered, from what he said," nodded Dick.

"Well, of all the nerve!" muttered Hazelton.

"The star position—for a fellow with a quitter's record!"

"I was obliged to say something of the sort" smiled Dick, "though I tried to say it in a way that wouldn't hurt his feelings."

"You didn't succeed very well in salving his feelings, if his looks gave any indication." laughed Greg Holmes quietly.

"Drayne went over to coach afterwards," added Dave Darrin. "Mr. Morton didn't seem to give the fellow any more satisfaction than you did, Dick."

"Who is to be quarter, anyway?" asked Harry Hazelton.

"Why, Dave is my first and last choice," Prescott answered frankly. "But, personally, I'm not going to press him any too hard for the post."

"Why not?" challenged Greg.

"Because everyone will say that I'm playing everything in the interest of Dick & Co."

"Dave Darrin is head and shoulders above any other possibility for quarter-back," insisted Greg, with so much conviction that Darrin, with mock politeness, turned and lifted his cap in acknowledgment of the compliment.

"Then coach and the Athletics Committee are intelligent enough to find it out," answered the young football captain.

"That suits me," nodded Dave. "I want to play at quarter; yet, if I can't make everyone concerned feel that I am the man for the job, then I haven't made good to a sufficient extent to be allowed to carry off the honors in a satchel."

"That's my idea, Darrin," answered Dick. "I believe you have made good, and so good at that, that I'm going to dodge any charge of favoritism, and leave it to others to see that you're forced to take what you deserve."

"Of course I want to play this season, and I'm training hard to be at my best," said Reade. "Yet when it's all over, and we've won every game, good old Gridley style, I shall feel mighty happy."

"Yes," nodded Harry Hazelton, "and the same thing here."

"That's because you two are not only attending High School, but also trying to blaze out your future path in life," laughed Dave.

"Well, the rest of you fellows had better be serious about your careers in life," urged Tom. "It isn't every pair of fellows, of course, who've been as fortunate as Harry and I."

"No; and all fellows can't be suited by the same chances, which is a good thing," replied Prescott. "For my part, I wouldn't find much of any cheer in the thought that I was going to be allowed to carry a transit, a chain or a leveler's rod through life."

"Well, we don't expect to be working in the baggage department of our profession forever," protested Harry Hazelton, with so much warmth that Dave Darrin chuckled.

Tom and Harry had decided that civil or railroad engineering, or both, perhaps, combined with some bridge building, offered them their best chances of pleasant employment in life.

Mr. Appleton, a local civil engineer with whom the pair had talked had offered to take them into his office for preliminary training. because at the High School, Tom and Harry had already qualified in the mathematical work necessary for a start.

No practicing civil engineer in these days feels that he has the time or the inclination to take a beginner into his office and teach him all of the work from the ground up. On the other hand, a boy who has been grounded well in algebra, geometry and trigonometry may then easily enter the office of a practicing civil engineer and begin with the tools of the profession. Transit manipulation and readings, the use of the plummet line, the level, compass, rod, chain and staking work may all be learned thus and a knowledge of map drawing imparted to a boy who has a natural talent for the work.

It undoubtedly is better for the High School boy to go to a technical school for his course in civil engineering; yet with a foundation of mathematics and a sufficient amount of determination, the High School boy may go direct to the engineer's office and pick up his profession. Boys have done this, and have afterwards reached honors in their profession.

So Tom and Harry had their future picked out, as they saw it. As soon as they had learned enough of the rudiments, both were resolved to go out to the far West, and there to pick up more, much more, right in the camps of engineers engaged in surveying and laying railroads.

"You fellows can talk about us going to work in the baggage department of our profession," pursued Tom Meade, a slight flush on his manly face. "But, Dick, you and Dave are in the dream department, for you fellows have only a hazy notion that—perhaps—you may be able to work your way into the government academies at West Point and Annapolis. As for Greg and Dan, they don't appear to have even a dream of what they hope to do in future."

"You fellows haven't been spreading the news that Dave and I want to go to Annapolis and West Point, have you!" asked Dick seriously.

"Now, what do you take us for?" protested Tom indignantly "Don't we understand well enough that you're both trying to keep it close secret?"

As the young men turned into Main Street the merry laughter of a group of girls came to their ears.

Four of the High School girls of the senior class had stopped to chat for a moment.

Laura Bentley and Belle Meade were there, and both turned quickly to note Dick and Dave. The other girls in the group were Faith Kendall and Jessie Vance.

"Here comes the captain who is going to spoil all of Gridley a chances this year," laughed Miss Vance.

"Hush, Jess," reproved Belle, while Laura looked much annoyed.

I see you have a wholly just appreciation of my merits, Miss Jessie," smiled Dick, as the boys raised their hats.

"Oh, what I said is nothing but the silly talk of him Dra——" began Jessie lightly, but stopped when she again found herself under the reproving glances of Laura and Belle.

Dick glanced at one of the girls in turn, his glance beginning to show curiosity.

Laura bit her lip; Belle locked highly indignant.

Prescott opened his month as though to ask a question, them closed his lips.

"I guess you might as well tell them, Laura," hinted Faith Kendall.

"Oh, nonsense." retorted Miss Bentley, flushing. "It's nothing at all, especially coming from such a source."

"Then some one has been giving me the roasting that I plainly deserve?" laughed Captain Prescott.

"It's all foolish talk, and I'm sorry the girls couldn't hold their tongues," cried Laura impatiently.

"Then I won't ask you what it was," suggested Dick, "since you don't like to tell me voluntarily."

"You might as well, Laura," urged Faith.

"It's that Phin——" began Jessie.

"Do be quiet, Jess," urged Belle.

"Why," explained Laura Bentley, "Phin Drayne just passed us, and stopped to chat when Jessie spoke to him——"

"I didn't," objected Miss Vance indignantly. "I only said good afternoon, and—"

"I asked Drayne if he had been out to the field for practice," continued Laura. "He grunted, and said he'd been out to see how badly things were going."

"Then, of course, Laura flared up and asked what he meant by such talk," broke in the irrepressible Jessie. "Then—ouch!"

For Belle had slyly pinched the talkative one's arm.

"Mr. Drayne had a great string to offer us," resumed Laura. "He said football affairs had never been in as bad shape before, and he predicted that the team would go to pieces in all the strong games this year."

"We have a rule of unswerving loyalty in the history of our eleven," said Prescott, smiling, though a grim light lurked in his eyes. "I guess Phin was merely practicing some of that loyalty."

"None of us care what Drayne thinks, anyway," broke in Dave Darrin contemptuously. "He wants to play as a regular, and he's slated only as a possible sub. So I suppose he simply can't see how the eleven is to win without him. But, making allowances for human nature, I don't believe we need to roast him for his grouch."

"I didn't think his talk was worth paying any attention to," added Laura. "I wouldn't have said anything about it, if it hadn't leaked out."

Jessie took this rebuke to herself, and flushed, as she rattled on:

"I guess it was no more than mere 'sorehead' talk on Phin Drayne's part, anyway. Mr. Drayne said he had saved a good deal of his pocket money, lately, and that he was going to win more money by betting on Gridley's more classy opponents this season."

"There's a fine and loyal High School fellow for you!" muttered Greg.

"Suppose we all change the subject," proposed Dick good-humoredly.

Two or three minutes later Dick & Co. again lifted their caps, then continued on their way.

"Dick," whispered Dave, "on the whole, I'm glad that was repeated to us."

"Why?"

"It ought to put us on our guard?"

"Guard? Against whom?"

"I should say against Phin Drayne."

"But he's merely offering to bet that we can't win our biggest games this year," smiled Prescott. "That doesn't prove that we can't win, does it?"

"Oh, of course not."

"Any fellow that will lower himself enough to make wagers on sporting events shows too little judgment to be entitled to have any spending money," pursued Prescott. "But, if Drayne has money, and is going to bet, he won't be entitled to any sympathy when he loses, will he?"

"Humph!" grunted Dave. "I'd like to have this matter followed up. Any fellow who is betting against us ought not to be allowed to play at all."

"Oh, it was just the talk of a silly, disappointed fellow," argued Dick. "I suppose a boy is a good deal like a man, always. There are some men who imagine that it lends importance to themselves when they talk loudly and offer to wager money. I'm not going to offer any bets, Dave, but I feel pretty certain that Drayne is just talking for effect."

"His offering to bet against his own crowd would be enough to justify you in dropping Drayne from the squad altogether," hinted Greg Holmes.

"Yes, of course," admitted Dick. "But we had enough of football soreheads last year. Now, wouldn't it make us look like soreheads if we took any malicious delight in dropping Drayne from the squad just because he has been blowing off some steam?"

"But I wouldn't trust him on the job," snapped Dan Dalzell. "I believe Phin Drayne would sell out any crowd for sheer spite."

"Even his country?" asked Dick quietly.

And there the matter dropped, for the time. Had Dick & Co. and some other High School fellows but known it, however, Drayne would have borne close watching.

III. PUTTING THE TAG ON THE SNEAK

Anything that Dick Prescott had charge of went along at leaps and bounds. Hence the football eleven was in good shape ten days earlier than Coach Morton could remember to have happened before.

"Your eleven is all ready to line up in the field, now, Captain," announced coach, one afternoon not long after, as the squad came out from dressing quarters for practice.

"I'm glad you think so, sir," replied Dick, a flush of pleasure mantling his cheeks.

"You have every man in fine condition. Condition couldn't be better, in fact, for those of the men who are likely to get on the actual battle line. And all the work is well understood, too. In fact, Captain, you can all but rest on your oars during the next fortnight, up to your first game."

"Hadn't we better go on training hard every day, sir?" inquired the young captain.

"Not hard," replied coach, shaking his head. "If you do, you'll get your men down too fine. Now, there's almost more danger in having your men overtrained than in having them undertrained. Your men can be trained too hard and go stale."

"I've heard of that," Dick nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes," continued coach, "and I've seen school teams that suffered from training down too fine. Boys can't stand it. They haven't as much flesh in training down hard, and they haven't as much endurance as college men, who are older. Captain, you will train your men lightly, three afternoons a week. For the rest, see to it that they stick to all training orders, including diet and hygiene and no tobacco. But don't work any of the men hard, with an idea of getting them in still better shape. You can't do it."

"Then I'd like to make a suggestion, Coach."

"Go ahead, Captain."

"You never saw a school team, did you, sir, that understood its signal work any too well?"

"Never," laughed Mr. Morton.

"Then I would suggest, sir, that most of our training time, from now until the season opens, be spent on drilling in the signals. We ought to keep at practicing the signals. We ought to get the signals down better than ever a Gridley team had them before, sir."

"You've just the right idea, Captain!" cried Mr. Morton heartily, resting one hand around Dick's shoulders. "I was going to order that, but I'm glad you anticipated me."

"Hudson," called out Prescott, "you head a scrub team. Take the men you want after I've chosen for the school team."

Dick rapidly made his choice for the school team. He played center himself, putting Dave Darrin at quarter, Greg Holmes as left tackle and Tom Reade as right end. Dalzell and Hazelton were left out, but they understood, quite well, that this was to avoid showing favoritism by taking all of Dick & Co. on the star team for practice.

"Let me play quarter, Hudson," whispered Drayne, going over to the acting captain of the "scrub."

"Not this afternoon, anyway," smiled Hudson. "I want Dalzell."

Drayne fell back. He was not chosen at all for the scrub team. Yet, as he had nearly a score of companions, out of the large football squad, he had no special reason to feel hurt. Those who had not been picked for either team lined up at the sides. There was a chance that some of them might be called out as subs, though practice in signal work was hardly likely to result in any of the players being injured.

Drayne did not appear to take his mild snub very seriously.

In fact, after his one outbreak before the team captain, and his subsequent remarks to the girls, Drayne had appeared to fall in line, satisfied even to be a member of the school's big squad.

The ball was placed for a snap-back, and Coach Morton sounded the whistle.

"Twelve-nine-seventeen—twenty-eight—four!" called Dave Darrin.

Then the scrimmage was on in earnest. As soon as the play had properly developed Mr. Morton blew his whistle, for this was practice only in the signal part.

Then Hudson took the ball and Dalzell called off:

"Nine—eight—thirteen—two!"

Again the ball was put in play, to be stopped after ten seconds.

So it went on through the afternoon's work. The substitutes on the side lines watched with deep interest, for they, too, had to learn all the signal work.

Within three afternoons of practice Dick had nearly all of his players so that they knew every signal, and were instantly ready to execute their parts in whatever was called for.

But there was no danger of knowing the signals too well. Captain Prescott still called out the squad and gave signal work unceasingly.

"The Gridley boys never jumped so swiftly to carry out their signals before, Captain," spoke Mr. Morton commendingly.

"I want to have this line of work ahead of anything that Tottenville can show next Saturday," Dick replied.

"I guess you have the Tottenville boys beaten all right," nodded Mr. Morton.

Tottenville High School always gave one of the stiffest games that Gridley had to meet. This season Tottenville was first on the list. Prescott's young men knew that they had a stiff fight. It was to take place on the Gridley grounds—that was comfort to the home eleven.

The entire student body was now feeling the enthusiasm of the opening of the season on Saturday.

The townsmen of Gridley had subscribed as liberally as ever to the athletics fund. There had also been a fine advance sale of seats, and the Gridley band had been engaged to make the occasion a lively one.

"You'll win, if ever the signs were worth anything, Captain," remarked Mr. Morton to Prescott, at recess Thursday forenoon.

"Of course we'll win, sir," laughed Dick. "That's the Gridley way—that's all. We don't know how to be whipped. I've been taught that ever since I first entered the High School."

"Pshaw!" muttered Drayne, who was passing.

"Don't you believe our chances are good, Mr. Drayne?" asked Mr. Morton, smiling.

"I look upon the Gridley chances as being so good, sir," replied Phin, "that, if I weren't a member of the squad, and a student of the High School, I think I'd be tempted to bet all I could raise on Tottenville."

"Betting is too strong a vice for boys, Mr. Drayne," replied the submaster, rather stiffly. "And doubt of your own comrades isn't very good school spirit."

"I was talking, for the moment, as an outsider," replied Phin Drayne, flushing.

"Change around then, Mr. Drayne, and consider yourself, like every other student of this school, as an insider wherever the Gridley interests are involved."

Drayne moved away, a half-sneer on his face.

"I don't like that young man," muttered Mr. Morton confidentially to the young captain of the team.

"I have no violent personal admiration for him," Prescott answered.

Then the bell sounded, calling all the boys and girls back to their studies.

At just about the hour of noon, a young caller strode into the yard, paused an instant, studying the different entrances of the High School building, then kept straight on and entered.

"A visitor for Mr. Prescott, in the reception, room," announced the teacher in charge of the assembly room.

Bowing his thanks, Dick passed out of the room, crossed the hall, entered a small room, and turned to greet his caller.

A fine-looking, broad-shouldered, bronzed young man of nineteen rose and came forward, holding out his hand.

"Do you remember me, Mr. Prescott?" asked the caller heartily.

"I've played football against you, somewhere," replied Dick, studying the other's face closely.

"Yes, I guess you have," laughed the other. "I played with Tottenville last year. I'm captain this season. Jarvis is my name."

"Oh, I'm downright glad to see you, Mr. Jarvis," Dick went on. "Be seated, won't you?"

"Yes; if you wish. Though I've half a notion that what I have to say may bring you jumping out of your seat in a moment."

"Anything happened that you want to postpone the game?" inquired Prescott, taking a chair opposite his caller.

"No; we're ready for Saturday, and will give you the stiffest fight that is in us," returned Jarvis. "But see here, Mr. Prescott, I'll come direct to the point. Is 'thirty-eight, nine, eleven, four' your team's signal for a play around the left end, after quarter has passed the ball to tackle and he to the end?"

Dick started, despite himself, for that was truly the signal for that play.

"Really Mr. Jarvis, you don't expect me to tell you our signals!" laughed Dick, pretending to be unconcerned.

But Jarvis called off another signal and interpreted it.

"From your face I begin to feel sure that I'm reeling off the right signals," pursued the Tottenville youth. "Now, I'll get still closer to the point, Mr. Prescott."

From an inside pocket Jarvis drew forth four typewritten pages, clamped together and neatly folded.

"Run your eye over these pages, Mr. Prescott, or as far as you want to go."

As Dick read down the pages every vestige of color faded from his face.

Here was Gridley's whole elaborate signal code, laid down in black and white to the last detail. It was all flawlessly correct, too.

"Mr. Jarvis," said Dick, looking up, "you've been a gentleman in this matter. This is our signal code, signal for signal. It's the code on which we relied for our chance to give your team a thrashing on Saturday. I thank you for your honesty, sir."

"Why, I always have rather prided myself on a desire to do the manly thing," smiled Captain Jarvis.

"May I ask how this came into your possession?" demanded Dick.

"It was in our family mail box, this morning, and I took it out on my way to school," replied Jarvis. "You see, the heading on the first sheet shows that the document purports to give the Gridley signals."

"And it does give them, to a dot," groaned Prescott, paling again.

"So I showed it to our coach, Mr. Matthews, and to some of the members of the team," continued Mr. Jarvis. "I would have brought this to you, in any case, and I'm heartily glad to say that every one of our fellows agreed that it was the only manly thing to do."

"You have won the Gridley gratitude," protested Dick. "This code couldn't have been tabulated by anyone but a member of our own squad. No one else had access to this list. There's a Benedict Arnold somewhere in our crowd," continued Dick, with a sudden rush of righteous passion. "Oh, I wish we could find him. But this typewriting, I fear, will give us no conclusive evidence. Was the address on the envelope in which this came also typewritten?"

"No," replied Mr. Jarvis. "I opened this communication on the street, while on my way to school. I tossed the envelope away. Then I fell to studying this document."

"You must have thought it a hoax," smiled Dick wearily.

"I did, at first, yes," continued the Tottenville football captain. "In fact, I was half of that mind when I left Tottenville to come here. But I was determined to find out the truth of the matter. Mr. Prescott, I'm very nearly as sorry as you can be, to have to bring you this evidence that you have a sneak in Gridley High School."

"I'd far rather have lost Saturday's game," choked Prescott, "than to discover that we've such a sneak in Gridley High School. I'm fearfully upset. I wish I had any kind of evidence on which to find this sneak."

"Have you any suspicions?"

"That would be too much to say yet."

"Of course, Mr. Prescott," continued the Tottenville youth, "you'll now have to revise all your signals. It will be a huge undertaking between now and Saturday. If you wish to postpone the game, I'll consent. Our coach has authorized me to say this."

"I think not," replied Dick, "though on behalf of the team I thank you. I'll have to speak to our coach, and Mr. Morton is in his classroom, occupied until the close of the school session."

"I'll meet you anywhere, Mr. Prescott, after school is over."

"You're mighty good, Mr. Jarvis," murmured Dick gratefully. "Now, by the way, if we're to catch the sneak who has done this dastardly thing, we've got to work fast. We ought not to let the traitor suspect anything until we're ready to act. Mr. Jarvis, do you mind leaving here promptly, and going to 'The Morning Blade' office? If you tell Mr. Pollock that you're waiting for me, he'll give you a chair and plenty to read."

"I'm off, then," smiled Jarvis, rising and reaching for his hat.

"I want to shake hands with you, Jarvis, and to thank you again for your manly conduct in bringing this thing straight to me."

"Why, that's almost insulting," retorted Jarvis quizzically. "Why shouldn't an American High School student be a gentleman? Wouldn't you have done the same for me, if the thing had been turned around?"

"Of course," Dick declared hastily. "But I'm glad that this fell into your hands. If we had gone into the game, relying on this signal code——"

"We'd have burned you to a crisp on the gridiron," laughed Jarvis. "But what earthly good would it do our school to win a game that we got by clasping hands with a sneak and a traitor? Can any school care to win games in that fashion? But now, I'm off for 'The Blade's office—if your Mr. Pollock doesn't throw me out."

"He won't," Dick replied, "I'm a member of 'The Blade' staff."

"Don't go back into assembly room with a face betraying as much as yours does," whispered Captain Jarvis, over his shoulder.

"Thank you for the tip," Dick responded.

When young Prescott stepped back into the general assembly room his face, though not all the color had returned to it, wore a smiling expression. He stepped jauntily, with his head well up, as he moved to his seat.

For fifteen minutes or more Dick made a pretense of studying his trigonometry hard. Then, picking up a pen with a careless gesture, he wrote slowly, with an appearance of indifference, this note:

"Dear Mr. Morton: Something of the utmost importance has come up in connection with the football work. Will you, without mentioning this note, and without doing anything that can sound the warning to any other student, meet me at 'The Blade' office as soon as possible after school is dismissed? I shall go to 'The Blade' office just as soon as I get away from here, and I shall await you in the greatest anxiety.

"Prescott."

This note Dick carried forward and left on the general desk. It was addressed to Mr. Morton, and marked "immediate."

When the reciting classes returned, and the teachers followed, Mr. Morton read his note without change of expression.

A moment later school was dismissed.

"In a hurry, Dick?" called Dave, racing after his leader as the young men made a joyous break away from the school building.

"Yes," breathed Prescott. "Come along, Dave. But I don't want the others, for I don't want a crowd."

"Why, what——"

"Quiet, now, old fellow," murmured Dick. "You'll have a big enough surprise in a few moments."

They got away together before their other chums had a chance to catch up.

"From the look in your face, I'd say that there was something queer in the air," guessed Dave.

"There is, Darrin. But wait until the moment comes to talk about it."

Walking rapidly, the two chums came to "The Blade" office. Jarvis, who had been sitting at the back of the office, rose as the two Gridley boys entered. Dick quietly introduced Dave to the young man from Tottenville who greeted him cordially.

"Now, we're waiting for one more before we talk," smiled Dick anxiously.

At that moment the door opened again, and Mr. Morton entered briskly.

"Now, Captain, what is your news?" called coach, as he came forward.

"Why, this is one of the Tottenville team, isn't it?"

"Mr. Morton, Captain Jarvis, of the Tottenville High School team," replied Dick, and the two shook hands.

Then Dick drew the typewritten document from his pocket. They could talk here, for Mr. Pollock had been the only other occupant of the room, and that editor has just stepped out to the composing room.

"Captain Jarvis received this in the mail this morning, sir," announced Prescott, in a voice that quivered with emotion.

Coach glanced through the paper, his face showing plainly what he felt. Then Dick took the paper and passed it to Dave Darrin, who sat consumed by curiosity.

"The abominable traitor—whoever he is!" cried Dave, rising as though he found his chair red hot. "And I think I can come pretty near putting the tag on the sneak!"

IV. THE TRAITOR GETS HIS DESERTS

Mr. Morton hesitated a moment, ere he trusted himself to speak.

"Yes," he murmured. "I fear we all suspect the same young man."

"Phin Drayne!" cried Dave, in a voice quivering with anger.

"I didn't intend to name him," resumed the coach. "It's a serious thing to do."

"To sell out one's school—I should say 'yes'!" choked Darrin.

"No; I meant that it is a fearful thing to accuse anyone until we have proof that can't be disputed," added Mr. Morton gravely, though his muscles were twitching as though he had been stricken by palsy.

"Listen," begged Dick, "while Mr. Jarvis tells you all he knows of this dastardly business."

The Tottenville captain repeated his short tale. Then Coach Morton asked several rapid questions. But there was no more to be told than Dick Prescott already knew.

"I'm tremendously sorry about that envelope," protested Jarvis. "I'd give anything to be able to hand that envelope over to you, but I'm afraid I'll never see it again."

"We appreciate your anxiety to help, Mr. Jarvis, as deeply as we appreciate your manliness in coming to us without an instant's delay," replied Mr. Morton, earnestly.

At this moment the office boy entered with the mail sack.

"Mr. Pollock!" he bellowed, tossing the sack down on the editor's desk. Then the office boy hurried to the rear of the building, intent on other duties.

Mr. Pollock returned to his desk, opening the mail. The football folks in the further corner lowered their voices almost to whispers.

"Letter for you, Dick," called Mr. Pollock, tossing aside an envelope.

Excusing himself, Dick darted over to get his mail. In an instant he came back, with a flushed face.

"Here's something that may interest you all," whispered Dick, shaking as though fever had seized him.

Mr. Morton took the sheet of paper, from which he read:

"Dear Old Gridleyites: If the enclosed is a fake, it won't work. If there's really a traitor in your camp you ought to know it. Milton High School doesn't take any games except by the use of its own fair fighting devices. Decker, Captain, Milton High School Football Team."

"And here's a duplicate set of our signals, returned by our Milton friends," went on Dick, with almost a sob in his voice. "Fortunately, Mr. Decker thought to preserve the envelope that contained our signal code. Here is the envelope, addressed in some person's handwriting."

Coach Morton seized the envelope, staring at it hard. He studied it with the practiced eye of a school teacher accustomed to overlooking examination papers in all styles of handwriting.

"The writer has tried to conceal his handwriting," murmured the coach, rather brokenly. "Yet I think we may succeed in tracing it back and fixing it on the sender."

"Oh!" growled Dave Darrin savagely. "I believe I know on whom to fasten this handwriting right now."

"I have a possible offender in mind," replied Mr. Morton more evenly. "In a case of this kind we must proceed with such absolute caution and reserve that we will not be obliged to retract afterwards in deep shame and humiliation."

"I think I've done all that I can, gentlemen," broke in Mr. Jarvis. "I think it is my place, now, to draw out of this painful business, and leave it to you whom it most concerns. But I am happy in the thought that I have been able to be of some service to you. I will now state that I am authorized to offer to postpone Saturday's game, if you wish, so that you may have time in, which to train up under changed signals."

"If you consent, sir," proposed Dick, turning to the coach, "we'll go on with Saturday's game just the same. There has been a big sale of tickets, the band has been engaged, and a good many arrangements made that will be expensive to cancel."

"Can you do it?" asked Mr. Morton, looking doubtfully at thee young captain of the team. "It's Thursday afternoon, now."

"I feel that we've got to do it, sir," Dick replied doggedly. "Yes, sir; we'll make it, somehow."

So the matter was arranged. The Gridleyites followed Jarvis out to the sidewalk, where they renewed their assurances of regard for the attitude taken by Tottenville High School. Then Jarvis hurried away to catch a train home.

"Now, young gentlemen," proposed Mr. Morton, "we'll go home and see whether we can engender the idea of eating any lunch, after this unmasking of villainy in our own crowd. But at half past two promptly to the minute, meet me at the High School. Remember, we've practice on for half past three."

"Of all the mean, contemptible——" began Darrin, after the submaster had left them.

"Stop right there, Dave!" begged his chum. "This is the most fearful thing we've ever met, and we both want to think carefully before we trust ourselves to say another word on the shameful subject."

So the two chums walked along in silence, soon parting to take their different ways home.

At half-past two both chums met Mr. Morton at the High School. The submaster led the way to the office, producing his keys and unlocking the door. They had moved in silence so far.

"Take seats, please," requested Mr. Morton, in a low voice. "I'll be with you in a moment."

The submaster then stepped over to a huge filing cabinet. Unlocking one of the sections, he looked busily through, then came back with a paper in his hand.

"I think I know whom you both suspect," began coach.

"Phin Drayne," spoke Dick, without hesitation.

"Yes. Well here is Drayne's recent examination paper in modern literature. It is, of course, in his own handwriting."

Eagerly the two football men and their coach bent over to compare Drayne's handwriting with that on the envelope that had come back from Milton.

"There has been an attempt at disguise," announced Mr. Morton, using a magnifying glass over the two specimens of writing. "Yet I am rather sure, in my own mind, that a handwriting expert would pronounce both specimens to have been written by the same hand."

"We've nailed Drayne, then," muttered Darrin vengefully.

"It looks like it," assented Mr. Morton. "However, we'll go slowly. For the present I'll put this examination paper with our other 'exhibits' and secure them all carefully in my inside pocket. Now, then, let us make our pencils fly for a while in getting up a revised code of signals."

It was not a long task after all. From the two typewritten copies Dick copied the first half of the plays, Dave the latter. Then Coach Morton went over the new sheets, rapidly jotting down new figures that should make all plain.

"Ten minutes past three," muttered coach, thrusting all the papers in his inside pocket and buttoning his coat. "Now, we'll have to take a car and get up to the field on the jump."

"But, oh, the task of drilling all the new calls into the fellows between now and Saturday afternoon!" groaned Dave Darrin, in a tone that suggested real misery.

"We'll do it," retorted Captain Dick. "We've got to!"

"And to make the boys forget all the old calls, so that they won't mix the signals!" muttered Dave disconsolately.

"We'll do it!"

It was Coach Morton who took up the refrain this time. And it was Prescott who added:

"We've got to do it. Nothing is impossible, when one must!"

It was just twenty-five minutes past three when the coach and his two younger companions turned around the corner of the athletic grounds and slipped in through the gate.

Most of the fellows were in the dressing quarters.

Phin Drayne sat on the edge of a locker chest. One of his feet lay across the knee of the other leg. He was in the act of unlacing one of his street shoes when Coach Morton called to him.

"Me?" asked Phin, looking up quickly.

"Yes," said Mr. Morton quietly. "I want to post you about something."

"Oh, all right; right with you, sir," returned Phin, leaping up and following the coach outside.

"What is it?" asked Phin, beginning to feel uneasy.

"Come along where the others can't hear," replied Mr. Morton, taking hold of Drayne's nearer elbow.

Phin turned white now. He went along, saying nothing, until Mr. Morton halted by the outer gate.

"Pass through, Drayne—and never let us see your face inside this gate again."

"But why? What—-"

"Ask your conscience!" snapped back the coach. "You'd better travel fast! I'm going back to talk to the other fellows!"

Mr. Morton was gone. For an instant Phin Drayne stood there as though he would brave out this assertion of authority. Then, seized by another impulse, he turned and made rapidly for a town-bound street car that was heading his way.

"What's up?" asked two or three of the fellows of Dick Prescott. Perceiving something out of the usual, they spoke in the same breath.

"Oh, if there's anything to tell you," spoke Prescott, suppressing a pretended yawn, "Mr. Morton may tell you—-some time."

But Mr. Morton was soon back. Knocking on the wall for attention, he told, in as few and as crisp sentences as he could command, the whole story, as far as known.

"Now, young gentlemen," wound up the coach, "we must practice the new signals like wild fire. There's mustn't be a single slip not a solitary break in our game with Tottenville. And that game will begin at three-thirty on Saturday!

"In reverting to Drayne, I wish to impress upon you all, with the greatest emphasis, that this must be treated by you all with the utmost secrecy until we are prepared, with proofs, to go further! If it should turn out that we're wrong in our suspicions, we'll turn and give Phineas Drayne the biggest and most complete public apology that a wronged man ever received."

"All out to practice the new signals!" shouted Prescott, the young captain of the team.

V. "BRASS" FOR AN ARMOR PLATE

Thursday night and Friday morning more copies of the betrayed signals poured in upon Captain Dick.

Wherever these signals had been received by captains of other school teams, it soon appeared, these captains of rival elevens had punctually mailed them back. It spoke volumes for the honor of the American schoolboy, for Gridley High School was feared far and wide on the gridiron, and there was not an eleven in the state but would have welcomed an honorable way of beating Prescott's men.

Moreover, working on Dick's suggestion, Mr. Morton busied himself with securing several letters that had been received from Drayne's father.

These letters were compared, Friday evening, with the copies of the signals that had been sent to other elevens. Under a magnifying glass these collected papers all exhibited one fact that the letters and the copies of the signal code had been struck off on a machine having the same peculiarities as to worn faces of certain types. It was thus rather clearly established that Phin Drayne must have used the typewriting machine that stood in his father's office.

Drayne was not at school on Friday. Instead, an excuse of illness was received from him.

Nor did Mr. Morton say anything to Dr. Thornton, the principal, until the end of the school week.

Just after school had been dismissed, at one o'clock Friday afternoon, Mr. Morton called Dr. Thornton to the private office, and there laid before him the charges and the proofs.

That fine old gentleman was overwhelmed with grief that "one of his boys" should have done such an utterly mean, wanton and dishonorable thing.

"This can't be passed by, Mr. Morton," exclaimed Dr. Thornton brokenly. "If you will kindly leave the proofs in my hands, I will see that the whole matter is taken up officially."

Friday afternoon the football squad met for more practice with the new signals. Friday evening each young man who was scheduled as being even likely to play the next day studied over the signals at home, then, under orders, burned his copy of the code. Saturday morning the squad met for some more practice, though not much.

"I believe all of us are in trim now, sir," Captain Prescott reported to the coach. "I am rather sure all of our men know the new signals by heart, and there'll be no confusion. But, of course, for the first game, the old snap of our recent practice will be missing. It has been a hard blow to us."

"If we have to lose to-day's game," muttered Mr. Morton, "I'll be almost satisfied to lose it to Tottenville, after the manly and straightout conduct of Mr. Jarvis!"

"That same line of thought would make us content to go through a losing season, for all the fellows in other towns who received that betrayed code sent the information right back to us," smiled Prescott. "But we're not going to lose to-day's game, Mr. Morton, nor any other day's. Drayne's treachery has just about crazed the other fellows with anger. They'll win everything ahead of 'em, now, just for spite and disgust, if for no better reason."

"Sometimes anger serves a good purpose," laughed Mr. Morton. "But it was pitiful to look at poor old Dr. Thornton yesterday afternoon. At first I thought he was going to faint. He seemed suddenly to grow ten years older. It cut him to the quick. He loves every one of his boys, and to have one of them go bad is just as painful to him as to see his own son sent to the penitentiary."

"Is Dr. Thornton coming to the game this afternoon, sir?"

"Yes; he has never missed one yet, in any year that he has been principal of Gridley High School."

"Then we'll make that fine old American gentleman feel all right again by the grand game that we'll put up," promised Dick vehemently. "I'll pass the word, and the fellows will strain themselves to the last drop."

Orders were issued to the gate tenders to throw Drayne out if he presented himself at the gate.

Drayne did put in an appearance, and he got through the gate to a seat on the grand stand, but it was no fault of the gate tenders.

Drayne had spent some of his spare money at the costumer's. With his trim, rather slim figure Phin Drayne made up rather well as a girl. He wore black—mourning throughout, perhaps in memory of his departed honor—and a heavy veil covered his face. In this disguise Drayne sat where he could see what would happen.

At the outset it was Gridley's kick off, and for the next ten minutes Tottenville had the ball, fighting stubbornly with it. But at last, when forced half way down the field between center and its own goal line, Gridley blocked so well in the three following plays that the pigskin came to the home eleven.

Dick bent over, holding the ball for the snapback, while his battle front formed on each side of him.

Dave Darrin, quarter-back, raced back a few steps, then halted, looking keenly, swiftly over the field.

Phin Drayne drew his breath sharply. Then his heart almost stopped beating as he listened.

"Thirty-eight—nine—eleven—four!" sounded Darrin's voice, sharp and clear.

"That's the run around the left end!" throbbed Phin Drayne.

But it wasn't. A fake kick, followed by a cyclonic impact at the right followed.

"They've changed the signals!" gulped the guilty masquerader behind the black veil. "Then they've found out."

With this came the next disheartening thought:

"That's the reason, then, why the coach ordered me out of the field Thursday afternoon. Morton is wise. I wonder if he has told it all around?"

Gridley High School was doing some of its brilliant, old-style play now. Prescott was proving himself an ideal captain, quick-witted, full of strategy, force, push and dash, yet all the while displaying the best of cool judgment in sizing up the chances of the hard battle.

But that which Phin Drayne noted most of all was that every signal used had a different meaning from that employed in the code he had mailed to the captains of the other school teams.

"It was all found out, and Gridley wasn't hurt," thought Phin, gnashing his teeth. "Good luck always seems to follow that fellow Prescott! Can't he be beaten? We shall see! Prescott, my fine bully, I'm not through with you yet."

The first half ended without either side scoring. Impartial onlookers thought that perhaps formidable Tottenville had had rather the better of it, but no one could tell with certainty which was the better team.

When neither side scores in the first half that which remains to be determined is, which side will show the bigger reserve of vitality in the second half.

And now the ball was off again, with twenty-two men pursuing and fighting for it as though the fate of the nation hung on the result. Dick, too, soon had things moving at a gait that had all Gridley standing up and boosting with all the powers of lungs, hands and feet.

All that remained to interest Phin Drayne was to discover whether his late comrades had sufficiently mastered their new signals not to fail in their team work.

Once in the second half there was a brief fluster. Two Gridley men went "woozy" over the same signal. But alert Dave Darrin rushed in and snatched a clever advantage out of momentary confusion.

After that there was no more confusion. Gridley took the game by a single touchdown, failing in the subsequent kick for goal. Five minutes later time expired.

Feeling doubly contemptible now, and sick at heart, Phin Drayne crawled weakly down from the grand stand. He made his way out in the throng, undetected. He returned to the costumer's, got off his sneaking garb and donned his own clothing, then slipped away out through a back door that opened on an alleyway.

Not until Sunday afternoon did Drayne yield to the desire to get out of doors. His training life had made outer air a necessity to him, so he yielded to the desire. But he kept to back streets.

Just as luck would have it, Drayne came suddenly face to face with Dr. Thornton.

The good old principal had a fixed belief which followed the practice of American law, to the effect that every accused man is innocent until he has been proved guilty.

In addition, the doctor had recovered a good deal from his first depression. Therefore he was able to meet this offending pupil as he would want to under the circumstances.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Drayne," was Dr. Thornton's courteous greeting. "It is beautiful; weather to be out, isn't it?"

"It is a perfect day, sir," Drayne replied.

Once he had gotten past the principal the young wretch gave way to his exultation.

"No charge has been made, then," he told himself gloatingly. "If I had been denounced, the Prin. could hardly have been as gracious. Well, hang it all, what are charges going to amount to, anyway?"

At the High School Monday morning, both before school and at recess, the members of the football squad cut Drayne dead.

"They suspect me, but they can't prove anything, anyway," chuckled the traitor to himself. "Brass, Phin, my boy! Brass! That is bound to win out when the clodhoppers can't prove a blessed thing."

As none of the students outside of the squad showed any especial inclination to cut him, Phin felt almost wholly reassured.

"It would be libelous, anyway, if the gang passed around a word that they couldn't prove," chuckled Drayne. "So I guess those that may be doing a heap of thinking will have caution enough to keep their mouths shut, anyway,"

That afternoon, after luncheon, Phin Drayne took a long tramp over country roads at the back of the big town. It was five o'clock when he returned.

"Here's a note for you, on High School stationery," said Mrs. Drayne, putting an envelope in her son's hand. "It came some time ago."

Something warned the fellow not to open the envelope there. He took it to his room, where he read the letter. It was from Dr. Thornton, and said only:

"You are directed to appear before the Board of Education at its stated weekly meeting to-night. This is urgent, and you are warned not to fail in giving this summons due heed."

In an instant Phin was white with fear. His legs trembled under him, and cold sweat stood out on his neck, face and forehead.

For some moments the young man acted as though in danger of collapse. Then he staggered over to the tap at his washbowl, and gulped down a glass of water. He paced the room restlessly for a long time, and finally went over and stood looking out of the window.

"Young man," he said to himself severely, "you've got to brace, and brace hard. If you haven't any nerve, then getting square is too strenuous a game for you? Now, what can that gang prove? They can suspect, and they can charge, but my denial is fully as good as any other man's affirmation. Go before the Board of

Education? Of course I will. And I'll make any accuser of mine look mighty small before that august board of local duffers!"

Brave words! They cheered the young miscreant, anyway. Phin ate his supper with something like relish. Afterwards he set out for the High School building, in which the Board had its offices. Nor did his courage fail him until he had turned in through the gate.

A young man, whistling blithely, came in behind him. It was Dick Prescott, erect of carriage, and brisk and strong of stride, as becomes a young athlete whose conscience is clear and wholesome.

"Hullo, Prescott, what are you doing around here to-night?" hailed Drayne.

But Dick seemed not to have heard. Not a note did he drop in the tune that he was whistling. Springing up the steps ahead, Dick vanished behind the big door.

"Oh, of course he goes here to-night," thought Phin, with sudden disgust. "Prescott scribbles for 'The Blade' and the Board of Education is one of his stunts each week."

VI. ONE OF THE FALLEN

For a few moments Drayne hung about outside, irresolute. Then his native shrewdness asserted itself.

"Not to go in, after having been seen here in the yard would be to confess whatever anyone wants to charge," muttered Phin. "Of course I'll go in. And I'll just stand there and look more and more astounded every time that anyone says anything. Brass, Phin—brass! Oh, I'd like to see anyone down me!"

So, with all the swagger he could put on, this young Benedict Arnold of the school stepped into the Board room. As he entered, the clerk of the Board hastened toward him.

"Step into this anteroom at the side, Mr. Drayne, until you're called," the clerk directed. "There will be some routine business to be transacted first. Then, I believe, the Board has a few questions it desires to ask you."

Left by himself, the young man began to be a good bit frightened. He was brave enough in matters requiring only physical courage. But in this instance the culprit knew that he had been guilty of a contemptibly mean act, and the knowledge of it made a moral coward of him.

"What are they doing? Trying to sentence, me to solitary confinement?" wondered the young man, when minute after minute went by without any call for him. In the Board room he could hear the droning of voices.

"And that Dick Prescott is out there, sitting at a reporter's table, ready to take in all that happens," muttered Phin savagely. "Won't he enjoy himself, though?"

At last it seemed to Phin as though a hush fell over those in the next room. But it was only that voices had been much lowered.

Then a door opened, the clerk looking in and calling:

"Mr. Drayne, will you come before the Board now?"

Phin passed into the larger apartment. Seated in one chair was Dr. Thornton; in another chair Mr. Morton. And Dick Prescott was there, but gathering up his writing materials as though about to go.

The chairman waited in silence until Prescott had passed out of the Board room. After the clerk had closed the door the chairman announced:

"The Board is now in executive session. Dr. Thornton, we will listen to the matter which we understand you wish to bring before us for consideration."

Composedly Dr. Thornton stepped to the edge of the table, standing there, resting his left hand on the table as he began to speak.

In simple words, without any visible emotion, the High School principal stated what he understood of the receipt of copies of the football signal code by the captains of rival football elevens.

Next Mr. Morton took the stand, so to speak, and went much more into detail. He told what the reader already knows, producing several of the copies returned by the honorable captains of other school teams.

Then Mr. Morton put in evidence, with these copies of the code, copies of business letters received from Drayne's father, and presumably written on the Drayne office machine.

"If you examine these exhibits, gentlemen, I think you will agree that the betrayed code and the business letters were written on one and the same machine. The use of the magnifying glass makes it even more plain."

Then Mr. Morton sat down.

"Now, young Mr. Drayne, what have you to say?" demanded the presiding officer.

"Why should I say anything, sir?" demand Drayne, with an impudent assumption of swaggering ease.

"Then you admit the truth of the charges, Mr. Drayne?"

"I do not."

"Then you must really have something to say."

"I have heard a charge made against me. I am waiting to have it proved."

"Do you admit," asked the presiding officer, "that these copies of the code were written on your father's office machine?"

"I do not, sir. But, if it be true, is that any proof that I made those copies of the signal code? Is it argued that I alone have access to the typewriter in my father's office. For that matter, if I have an enemy in the High School and I must have several—wouldn't it be possible for that enemy, or several of them, to slyly break into my father's office and use that particular typewriting machine?"

This was confidently delivered, and it made an undoubted impression on at least two or three members of the Board. But now Mr. Morton broke in, quietly:

"I thought some such attempt as this might be made. So I waited until I saw what the young man's line of defense might be. Here is an envelope in which one of the copies was received by the captain of a rival football team. You will note that the sender, while understanding something about the use of a type machine, was plainly a novice in directing an envelope on the typewriter. So he addressed this envelope in handwriting. Here is the envelope in question, and here is one of Mr. Drayne's school examination papers, also in his own handwriting. I will ask the members of the Board to examine both."

There was silence, while the copies passed from hand to hand, Drayne losing color at this point.

"Be brassy!" he whispered to himself. "You'll pull through, Phin, old boy."

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Drayne, that the evidence appears to be against you," declared the chairman slowly.

"It may, sir," returned the boy, "but it isn't conclusive evidence."

"Have you anything more to say, Mr. Morton?" asked the chairman, looking at the submaster.

"Plenty, Mr. Chairman, if the Board will listen to me."

"Proceed, Mr. Morton."

The football coach thereupon launched into a swiftly spoken tirade against the "brand of coward and sneak" who would betray his school in such a fashion. Without naming Phin, Mr. Morton analyzed the motives and the character of such a sneak, and he did it mercilessly, although in the most parliamentary language. Nor did he look toward the boy, but Phin was squirming under the lash, his face alternately red or ghastly.

"For such a scoundrel," continued Mr. Morton, "there is no hope greater than the penitentiary! He is fit for nothing else. Such a traitor would betray his best friend, or his country. Such a sneak would be dead to all feelings of generosity. The smallest meannesses must envelop his soul. Why, sir, the sender of these copies of the signal code was so mean, so small minded, so sneaking and so utterly selfish"—how Phin squirmed in his seat!—"that, in sending the envelopes through the mail he was not even man enough to pay full postage. Four cents was the postage required for each envelope, but this small-souled sneak, this ungenerous leech actually made the receivers pay half of the postage on 'due-postage' stamps."

"I didn't!" fairly screamed red-faced Phin, leaping up out of his chair. "I stuck a four-cent stamp on each envelope myself! I remem——"

Of a sudden he stopped in his impetuous burst of language. A great hush fell in the room. Phin felt himself reeling with a new fright.

"Then," demanded Mr. Morton, in a very low voice, his face white, "why did you deny having sent out these envelopes containing the copies of the code?"

There was a shuffling of feet. Two or three of the Board laughed harshly.

"Oh, well!" burst almost incoherently from the trapped boy. "When you employ such methods as these you make a fellow tell on himself!"

All his 'brass' was gone now. He looked, indeed, a most pitiable object as he stood there, his lower jaw drooped and his cheeks twitching.

"I think you have said about all, Mr. Drayne, that it is necessary for you to say," interposed the chairman. "Still, in the interest of fair play we will allow you to make any further statements that you may wish to make. Have you anything to offer?"

"No!" he uttered, at last, gruffly.

At a sign from the chairman the clerk stepped silently over, took Phin by one elbow, and led him to the door. Phin passed on out of the building, stumbling blindly. He got home, somehow, and into bed.

In the morning, however, even a sneak is braver.

"What can they do to me, anyway?" muttered Phin, as he dressed. "I didn't break any of the laws of the state! All anyone can do is to cut me. I'll show 'em all how little I care for their contempt."

So it was not wholly in awe that Phin Drayne entered the general assembly room the next morning, a few minutes before opening time. Several of the students greeted him pleasantly enough. Phin was quick to conclude that the news had not leaked anyway, beyond the members of the football squad.

Then came the opening of the session. The singing books lay on the desks before the students. Instead, however, of calling out the page on which the morning's music would be found, Dr. Thornton held his little gavel in his hand, after giving a preliminary rap or two on his desk.

"I have something to say to the students of the school this morning," began Dr. Thornton, in a low but steady voice. "It is something which, I am happy to state, I have never before been called upon to say.

"One of the most valuable qualities in any man or woman is loyalty. All of us know, from our studies in history and literature, many conspicuous and noble examples of loyalty. We have also, in our mind's eye, some examples of the opposite qualities, disloyalty and treachery. Outside of sacred history one of the most conspicuous examples of betrayal was that of Benedict Arnold."

Every boy and girl now had his eyes turned fixedly on the old principal. Outside of the football squad no student had any idea what was coming. Phin tried to look wholly unconscious.

Dr. Thornton spoke a little more on the meanness of treachery and betrayal. Then, looking straight over at the middle of the third aisle on the boys' side of the room, the principal commanded:

"Mr. Drayne, stand by your desk!"

Phin was up, hardly knowing how he accomplished the move. Every pair of eyes in the room was focused on him.

"Mr. Drayne," continued the principal, and now there was a steely glitter of contempt in the old man's eyes, "you were displeased because you did not attain to as high honors on the football eleven as you had hoped. In revenge you made copies of the code signals of the team, and mailed a copy to the captain of nearly every team against which Gridley High School is to play this year."

There came, from all parts of the room, a gasp of incredulous amazement.

"Your infamy, your treachery and betrayal, Mr. Drayne, were traced back to you," continued the principal. "You were forced to admit it, last night, before the Board of Education. That Board has passed sentence in your case. Mr. Drayne, you are found utterly unfit to associate with the decent manhood and womanhood to be found in the student body of this High School. By the decision of the Board you are now expelled from this school. You will take your books and belongings and leave instantly. You will never presume to enter through the doors of this school again. Go, sir!"

From Phin came an angry snarl of defiance. He tried to shout out, to tell the principal and his late fellow students how little, or less than little, he cared about their opinions.

But the words stuck in his throat. Ere he could try again, a hiss arose from one quarter of the room. The hiss grew and swelled. Phin realized, though he dared not look about him any longer, that the hissing came as much from the girls as from the boys.

Drayne did not attempt to bend over his desk. Instead, he marched swiftly down the half of the aisle, then past the platform toward the door.

"Mr. Drayne," called Dr. Thornton, "you have not taken your books, or paper or other desk materials."

"I leave them, sir," shouted Phin, above the tumult of hissing, "for the use of some of your many pauper students."

Then he went out, slamming the door after him. He darted down to the basement, then waited before the locker door until one of the monitors came down, unlocked the door, and allowed Phin to get his hat. But the monitor never looked at him, or spoke.

Once out of the building, Phin could keep back the choking sob and tears no longer. Stealing down a side street, where he would have to pass few people, Phin gave way to his pent-up shame. Yet in it all there was nothing of repentance. He was angry with himself—in a fiendish rage toward others.

Afterwards, he learned that the books and other contents of his desk were burned in the school yard at recess, to the singing of a dirge. But, even for the purpose of making a bonfire of his books the students would not touch the articles with their hands. They coaxed the janitor to find a pair of tongs, and with this implement Phin's books and papers were conveyed to the purifying blaze.

Behind the door in the privacy of his own room Phin Drayne shook his fist at the surrounding air.

"I have one mission in life, now, anyway!" raged the boy. "I've got some cruel scores to pay. You, Dick Prescott, shall come in for a large share of the payment! No matter how long I have to wait and plan, or what I have to risk, you shan't get away from me!"

VII. DICK MEETS THE BOY-WITH-A-KICK

Evil thoughts can never be cherished, day after day, without leading the more daring or brutal into some form of crime.

Phin, the first three or four times he tried to appear on Main Street, was "spotted" and hissed by High School boys.

Even the boys of the lower schools heard the news, and took up the hissing with great zest.

So Phin was forced to remain indoors during the day, which drove him out by night, instead.

Had he been older, and known more of human nature, he would have known that the hissing would soon die out, and thereafter he would meet only cold looks.

At home, be sure Phin was not happy. His mother, a good woman, suffered in silence, saying little to her son.

Phin's father, a hard-headed and not over scrupulous man of business, looked upon the incident of expulsion as a mere phase in life. He thought it "would do the boy good, and teach him to be more clever."

Gridley met Milton High School and scored another victory, Milton taking only two points on a safety that Gridley was forced to make.

And now the game with Chester was looming up ahead. It was due for the coming Saturday.

Three times a week, Dick Prescott had his squad out for drill and practice, though he was careful to follow Mr. Morton's suggestion not to get the young men trained down "too fine."

Early one evening in mid-week, Dick sat at his desk in "The Blade" office, "grinding out" some local copy. He was in a hurry to finish, for he was due to be in bed soon. Every member of team and squad was pledged to keep early hours of retiring on every night but Saturday.

In another chair, near by, sat Dave Darrin, who dropped in to speak with his chum, and was now waiting until they could stroll down Main Street together.

"I've just thought of something I want to do, Dick," muttered Dave suddenly. "I'll jump out and attend to it, now. Walk down Main Street, when you're through, and you'll run into me."

Prescott, nodding, went on with his writing, turning out page after page. Then he rose, placing the sheets on News Editor Bradley's desk.

"I'm pretty sure you'll find it all right, Mr. Bradley," declared Dick. "Now, I must get home, for I'm due in bed in half an hour."

"Training and newspaper work don't go well together," laughed the news editor. "However, your football season will soon be over. This time next year you'll be through with High School, and I hope you'll be with us then altogether."

"I don't know about that, Mr. Bradley," smiled Dick, picking up his hat and starting for the door. "But I do know that I like newspaper work mighty well. When a fellow is writing for a paper he seems to be alive all the time, and right up to the minute."

"That youngster may come to us for a while, after he gets out of High School," called Mr. Pollock, across the room, after Prescott had, gone out. "But he won't stay long on a small daily. A youngster with all his hustle is sure to pull out, soon, for one of the big city dailies. The country towns can't hold 'em."

Dick went briskly down the street, whistling blithely, as a boy will do when he's healthy and his conscience is clear.

A block below another boy, betraying the hang-dog spirit only too plainly, turned the corner into Main Street.

It was Phin Drayne, out for one of his night walks. Fearing that he might be insulted, and get into a fight with some one, Drayne had armed himself with one of his father's canes. The stick had a crook for a handle.

Prescott caught a glimpse of the other boy's face; then he turned away, hastening on.

"I'm not even worth looking at," muttered Phin to himself.

Just as Dick went past, Phin seized the cane by the ferule end, and lunged out quickly.

The crook caught neatly around one of Dick's ankles just as the foot was lifted.

Like a flash Prescott went down. One less nimble, and having had less training, might have been in for a split kneecap. But Dick was too much master of his body and its movements. He went down to his hands, then touched lightly on his knees.

Phin laughed sneeringly as Dick sprang up, unhurt.

"Keep out of my way, after this—you less-than-nothing!" muttered Dick between his teeth. "I don't want to have to even hit a thing like you!"

"You'll show good judgment, Mr. Big-head, if you don't try it," jeered Drayne, menacing Dick with the cane.

The color came into Dick's face. Leaping forward, with all the adroitness of the born tackler, he caught that cane, just as it descended, and wrenched it out of Phin Drayne's cowardly, hand.

Crack! Dick broke it in two across his knee, then tossed the pieces into the street.

"You'll never be able to do anything better than a sneaky act," muttered Dick contemptuously, turning to walk on.

With a smothered cry Phin Drayne leaped forward to strike Prescott down from behind.

Dick was around again like a flash, one fist striking up the arm with which the sneak had aimed his blow.

"Stand off, and keep away," advised Prescott coldly.

"I won't; I'll thrash you!" hissed Phin.

There was nothing for Dick to do but put up his guard, which he did with great promptness. Drayne danced around him, seeking a good point at which to close in.

Prescott had no notion of fighting; neither did he propose to take an assault meekly.

"Look out!" yelled Drayne, suddenly rushing in.

"Certainly," mocked Prescott coolly.

He shot up Phin's arm as easily as could have been desired. With his right he parried another blow.

"Get out of this, and go about your business," advised Dick sternly.

"Think I'll take any orders from you?" snarled Phin. "I'll——"

He continued to crowd in, hammering blows. Dick parried, but did not attempt to retaliate. The truth was, he felt secretly sorry for the fellow who had fallen as low as Phin.

But Drayne was no coward physically, when his blood was up. It drove him to fever heat, now, to see how easily the captain of the football team repulsed him.

"I'll get your wind going, and then I'll hammer you for fair!" snarled Drayne.

"Mistake there, somewhere," retorted Dick coolly.

But Drayne was coming in, harder and harder. Dick simply had to do something. So, after he had parried more than a score of blows the young football captain suddenly took a springy step forward, shot up Phin's guard, and landed a staggering blow on the nose. Phin began to reel. Dick hit him more lightly on the chest, yet with force enough to "follow up" and send to his knees.

"Here, what's this?" called a voice, and a heavy hand seized Dick by the collar behind, pulling him back.

It was Heathcote Drayne, Phin's father, a powerful man, who now held Prescott.

Phin was quickly upon his feet and start forward.

From across the street sounded a warning cry, followed by footsteps.

"Now, I've got you!" cried Phin exultantly. He struck, and landed, on Dick's cheek.

"Stop that, Phin!" shouted his father, without letting go of Dick's collar, however. Phin, however, instead of obeying, aimed another blow, and would have landed, had not another figure bounded in and taken the blow, next hurling Phin back against a brick wall.

It was Len Spencer, "star" reporter of "The Blade," who had thus interfered. And now Dave Darrin was dancing in front of Heathcote Drayne, ordering:

"Let go of Prescott! What sort of fair play is this?"

"Mind your own business!" ordered Mr. Drayne. "I'm stopping a fight."

Not an instant did impulsive Darrin waste in arguing the matter. He landed his fist just under Heathcote Drayne's left eye, causing that Heathcote to let go of Dick in a hurry.

"You young scoundrel!" glared Mr. Drayne, glaring at Dave.

"Opinions may differ as to who the scoundrel is," retorted Dave unconcernedly. "My own notions of fair play are against holding one of the parties in a fight so that the other may hammer him."

"I'll have you arrested for this assault," stormed Mr. Drayne, applying a handkerchief to the bruised spot under his eye. "Both you and Prescott—your ruffian friend for assaulting my son.

"Go ahead and do it," retorted Dave. "As it happens, your son did all the assaulting, and Prescott, who didn't care about fighting with such a thing, only defended himself. We saw it all from across the street, but we didn't come across to interfere until we had to."

"I'll take some of your impudence out of you in the police court," insisted Mr. Drayne.

"Yes, I would, if I were you," broke in Len Spencer coolly. "I saw this whole business, too, and I'll take pleasure in testifying against you both. Mr. Drayne, you didn't see the start of this thing, and I did. But you, at least, know that your son is a moral leper kicked out of the High School because he was not decent enough to associate with the other students. I wouldn't be surprised if he gets some of his bad qualities from you, sir"

"You'll sing a different tune in court," asserted Heathcote Drayne heatedly.

"So will you," laughed Len Spencer. "By the way, I see a policeman down the street. If you want to prefer a charge, Mr. Drayne, I'll blow my police whistle and bring the officer here."

Spencer took a whistle from his pocket, moving it toward his lips.

"Do you want the officer!" challenged the reporter.

But Mr. Drayne began to see the matter in a somewhat different light. He knew much about the nature of his son, and here were two witnesses against him. Besides, one was a trusted staff writer for the local paper, and the whole affair was likely to result in a disagreeable publicity.

"I'll think this all over before I act," returned Mr. Drayne stiffly, as he took his son by one arm. "Come along, Phin."

As the Draynes moved away each held a handkerchief to his face.

"I don't think much of fighting, and I don't like to do it," muttered Darrin, who was beginning to cool down. "But if Heathcote Drayne had had to do more fighting when he was younger he might have known how to train that cub of his to be more of a man."

VIII. DICK PUTS "A BETTER MAN" IN HIS PLACE

Of course Dick heard no more from the Draynes. He didn't expect that he would.

Phin, however, was noticed no more on the streets of the little city. Then, in some way, it leaked out that his father had sent him to a military boarding school where the discipline was credited with being very rigid.

"I guess papa has found that his little boy was none too much of an angel," laughed Dave Darrin when discussing the news with his chums.

The first four games of the season went off successfully for Gridley, though all were hard battles in which only fine leadership and splendid team work by all saved the day.

Two of these games had been played on the home grounds, two away from home. The fifth game of the season was scheduled to be played on the home grounds. The opponent for this game was to be Hallam Heights High School. The Hallam boys were a somewhat aristocratic lot, but not snobbish, and the Gridley young men looked forward to an exciting and pleasant game. It was the first game ever played between Gridley and Hallam Heights. Coach Morton talked about the strangers one rainy afternoon in the gymnasium.

"I believe you're going to find yourselves up against a hard proposition," declared coach slowly "These young men attend a High School where no expense is spared. Some of the wealthy men of the town engage the physical director, who is one of the best men in his class. Speight, who was at college with me, is engaged in addition as the football coach. I remember Speight as one of the cleverest and most dangerous men we had at college. He could think up a whole lot of new field tricks overnight. Then again, most of the Hallam Heights boys are young fellows who go away for athletic summers. That is, they are young fellows who do a lot of boating, yachting, riding, tennis, track work, and all the rest of it. They are young fellows who glory in being in training all the year around. Speight writes me that he thinks he has the finest, strongest and most alert boys in the United States."

"We'll whip them, just the same," announced Dick coolly.

"Gridley will, if anyone can—I know that," agreed Mr. Morton. "You've won all four games that you've played this season. Hallam Heights has played five games and won them all. The Hallam youngsters are out to capture the record that Gridley has held for some time that of capturing all the games of the season."

"Bring 'em on!" begged Darrin. "I wish we had 'em here to play just as soon as the rain lets up."

"Don't make the mistake of thinking that, because the Hallam boys have rich fathers, they're dudes, who can't play on wet ground," laughed Mr. Morton.

"If Hallam sends forth such terrors," grinned Dick, rising from the bench on which he had been sitting, "then we must get in trim for 'em. Come on, fellows; some of the light speedy exercises. I'll work you up to all the speed you can take care of, this afternoon."

For the next ten minutes Dick was as good as his word. Then, after a brief breathing spell, Prescott ordered his men to the running track in the gallery.

"Three laps at full speed, with a two-minute jog between each speed burst, and a minute of breathing between each kind of running," called out Dick.

Then, after he had seen the fellows started, he turned to the coach.

"If I never learned anything else from you, Mr. Morton, I think I've wholly absorbed the idea that no man is in condition unless he can run well; and that nothing will make for condition like judicious running."

"As to what you've learned from me, Captain Prescott," replied the coach, "I fully believe that you've learned all that I have to teach. I wouldn't be afraid to go away on a vacation and leave the team in your hands."

"Him!" smiled Dick. "Without you to back me up, Mr. Morton, I'm afraid some of the fellows might kick over the traces."

"They wouldn't kick over but once," laughed the coach. "The first time any fellow did that you'd drop him from the team. And the fellows know it. I haven't noticed the young men attempting to frisk you any."

"One did."

"I know whom you mean," replied the submaster, his brow clouding. "But he got out of the team, didn't he?"

"Yes; but I didn't put him out."

"You would have put him off the team if it had been left for you to do it."

As soon as he thought the squad had had enough exercise to keep them in tone, Dick dismissed them.

"But every one of you do his level best to keep in condition all the time until we get through with Hallam Heights," urged the young captain. "That applies, too, not only to team members, but to every man in the squad. If the Hallam fellows are swift and terrific, we can't tell on whom we may have to pounce for substitutes."

This was to be a mid-week game, taking place Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday morning word reached school that Hudson, who was down to play right guard, and Dan Dalzell, right end, were both at home in bed, threatened with pneumonia. In each case the doctor was hopeful that the attack would be averted, but that didn't help out the afternoon's game any.

"Two of our prize men out," muttered Dick anxiously to Dave at recess.

"And it's claimed that misfortunes always travel by threes," returned Darrin, half mournfully.

"Don't!" shivered Prescott. "Let us off with two misfortunes."

Afternoon came along, somewhat raw and lowering. Rain might prevent the game. Less than three quarters of the people who bought seats in advance appeared at the grounds. The sale of spot seats was not as brisk by half as it would have been on a pleasanter day.

But the Hallam Heights boys came along early, bounding and full of fun and dash.

They were a fine-looking lot of boys. The Gridley youngsters took to their opponents instantly.

"I wonder what's keeping Dick?" muttered Dave Darrin, half anxiously, in dressing quarters.

"Anyway, we won't worry about him until we have to," nodded Mr. Morton. "Our young captain is about the promptest man, as a rule, in the whole squad."

"That's just why I am uneasy," grunted Dave.

Hardly had he spoken when Dick Prescott came in—but limping slightly!

And what a rueful countenance the young captain of the team displayed!

"Suffering Ebenezer, man, but what has happened?" gasped Dave.

All the other Gridley youngsters stopped half way in their togging to listen for the reply.

"Nothing much," grunted Dick. "Yet it came near to being too much. A man bumped me, as I was getting on the car, and drove me against the iron dasher. It was all an accident, due to the man's clumsiness. But it barked my knee a good bit."

"Let me see you walk about the room," ordered Coach Morton. He watched closely, as Dick obeyed.

"Sit down, Prescott, and draw the trousers leg off on that side. I want to examine the knee."

While Mr. Morton went to work the other members of the team crowded about, anxiety written on all their faces.

"Does it hurt more when I press?" asked the submaster keenly. "Ah, I thought so! Prescott, you're not badly hurt for anything else; but your knee is in no shape to play this afternoon!"

A wail of dismay went up from the team members. The rueful look in Dick's face deepened.

"I was afraid you'd bar me out," he confessed. "I never felt so ashamed in my life."

"It wouldn't be of any use for you to play, for that knee wouldn't stand it in any rough smash," declared the coach, shaking his head solemnly.

"It's all off with us, then," groaned one of the fellows. "We may as well ask Hallam if they'll allow us to hand 'em a score of six to nothing on a platter, and then stay off the field."

"Hush your croaking, will you?" demanded Dave Darrin angrily, glaring about him. "Is that the Gridley way? Do we ever admit defeat? Whoever croaks had better quit the team altogether."

Under that rebuke the boy who had ventured the opinion shrank back abashed.

"You're sure I'll be in no shape to go on, Coach?" asked Dick anxiously.

"Why, of course you could go on," replied Mr. Morton. "And you could run about some, too, unless your knee got a good deal stiffer. But you wouldn't be up to Gridley form."

"Have I any right to go on, with a knee in this shape?" queried Dick.

"You certainly haven't," replied Mr. Morton, with great emphasis.

"Dave," called the young football chief, "you're second captain of the team. Get in and get busy. Put up the best fight you can for old Gridley!"

"Aye, that I will," retorted Dave Darrin, his eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing. "I'll go in like a pirate chief, and I'll break the neck of any Gridley man who doesn't do all there is in him this afternoon."

"Listen to the fire eater," laughed Fenton. Dave grinned good-humoredly, but went insistently:

"All right. If any of you fellows think I take less than the best you can possibly do, try it out with me."

Then Darrin came over to rest a hand on Prescott's shoulder.

"Dick, you'll give me any orders you have before we go on, and between the halves, won't you?"

"Not a word," replied Dick promptly. "Dave, you can lead as well as ever I have done. If you're going to be captain to-day you'll be captain in earnest. I'll hamper you neither with advice nor orders."

With so important a player as Dick Prescott out of the team Dave had a hard task in rearranging the eleven. In this he sought direction from Mr. Morton. Rapidly they sketched the new line-up.

Darrin himself would have to drop quarterback and go to center. For this latter post Dave was rather light, but he carried the knack of sturdy assault better than any other man in the team after Prescott.

Tom Reade was called to quarter. Shortly afterwards all the details had been completed.

"As to style, you'll gather that from the signals," muttered Darrin. "The only rule is the one we always have—that we can't be beat and we know we can't."

There came a rap at the door. Then a bushy mop of football hair was thrust into the doorway.

"Talking strategy, signals or anything we shouldn't hear?" asked the pleasant voice of Forsythe, captain of the Hallam Heights boys.

"Not a blessed thing," returned Dave. "Come in, gentlemen."

Captain Forsythe, in full field toggery, came in, followed by the members of the visiting team, all as completely attired for work.

"We're really not intruding?" asked Forsythe, after he had stepped into the room.

"Not the least in the world," responded Dave heartily. "Mr. Forsythe. let me introduce you to Mr. Morton, our coach, and to Mr. Prescott, the real captain of this tin-pan crowd of pigskin chasers."

"Oh, I mistook you for Prescott," replied Forsythe, as he acknowledged the introductions.

"No; I'm Darrin, the pewter-plate second captain—the worst you've got to fear to-day," laughed Dave, as he held out his hand.

"Why—what—-anything happened?" asked Captain Forsythe, looking truly concerned.

"Captain Prescott has had his knee injured, and two of our other crack men are in bed, sick," replied Mr. Morton cheerfully. "Otherwise we're all quite well."

"Your captain and two other good men out?" asked Forsythe in real sympathy. "That doesn't sound fair, for we came over here prepared to put up the very best we had against you old invincibles. I'm awfully sorry."

"Captain Forsythe, we all thank you for your sympathy," Dick answered, "but Captain Darrin can lead at least as well as I can. I believe he can do it better. As for the team that we're putting in the field to-day, if you can beat it, you could as easily beat anything we could offer at any other time. So, as far as one may, with such courteous opponents as you are, Gridley hurls back its defiance and throws down the battle gage! But play your very best team, Captain Forsythe, and we'll do our best in return."

IX. COULD DAVE MAKE GOOD?

Dave Darrin, a good deal disheveled and covered with soil and perspiration on his face and neck, came striding in after time had been called on the first half.

Dave's generalship had kept Hallam Heights from scoring, but Gridley hadn't put away any points, either.

"You saw it all from the side lines, Dick?" Dave asked, as the chums, arm in arm, strolled into dressing quarters.

"Yes."

"What are your instructions for the second half."

"I haven't any."

"Your advice, then?"

"I haven't any of that, either. Dave, any fellow who can hold those young human cyclones back as you've done doesn't need any pointers in the game."

"But we simply couldn't score against them," muttered Darrin. "So I know there's something wrong with my leadership. What is it?"

"Nothing whatever, Darrin. It simply means that you're up against the hardest line to get through that I've ever seen Gridley tackle. Why, yesterday I was looking over the record of these Hallam boys, and I find that they've already whipped two college second teams. But you'll get through them in the next Dave, if there's any human way of doing it. So that's all I've got to say, for I'm not out there on the gridiron, and I can't see things from the side line the same as you can on the ten-yard line. Perhaps Mr. Morton may have something to offer."

But the coach hadn't.

"You're doing as well as any man of Gridley could do, Darrin," the submaster assured the young second captain. "Of course, with Prescott at center, and yourself jumping around as quarter-back the team would be stronger. But in Prescott's enforced absence, I don't see how you can play any point of the line more forcefully than you've been doing."

But Dave, instead of looking puffed up, replied half dejectedly:

"I was in hopes you could both show me where I'm weak."

"You're not weak," insisted Coach Morton.

"That throws me back on thinking hard for myself," muttered Darrin.

Where a weaker man would have been pleased with such direct praise Dave felt that he was not doing his duty because he had not been able to lead as brilliantly as Dick had done in earlier games.

"Brute strength isn't any good against these Hallam fellows," Darrin told himself, as he returned to the field. "They're all A-1 athletes. Even if Gridley played a slugging game, it wouldn't bear these Hallam boys down. As to speed and scientific points, they seem to be our masters. Whatever we do against them, it must be something seldom heard of on the gridiron something that will be so brand new that they can't get by it."

Yet twice in the half that followed Gridley barely escaped having to make a safety to save their goal line. Each time, however, Dave wriggled out of it.

When there were but seven minutes left neither team had scored.

Gridley now had the ball for snap-back at its own twenty-five-yard line.

The most that home boosters were hoping for now was that Gridley would be able to hold down the game to no score.

Dave had been thinking deeply. He had just found a chance to mutter orders swiftly.

Fenton, little, wiry and swift, was to-day playing at left end, the position that Dick himself had made famous in the year before.

"Eighteen—three—eleven—seven—nine!" called Tom Reade, crisply.

The first four figures called off the play that Gridley was to make, or to pretend to make. But that nine, capping all at the end, caused a swift flutter in Gridley hearts. For that nine, at the end of the signal, called for a fake play.

Yet the instant that the whistle trilled out its command every Gridley player unlimbered and dashed to the position ordered.

Only three men on the team understood what was contemplated. Coach Morton, from the side lines, had looked puzzled from the moment that he heard the signal.

Dick Prescott, eager for his chum's success, as well as the team's, stood as erect as he could beside Mr. Morton, trying to take in the whole field with one wide, sweeping glance.

As Tom Reade caught the ball on its backward snap, he straightened up, tucking the ball under his left arm and making a dash for Gridley's right end.

Immediately, of course, Hallam rushed its men toward that point.

Yet the movements of Gridley's right wing puzzled the visitors. For all of Dave's right flankers dashed forward, making an effective interference.

Surely, reasoned Captain Forsythe, Tom Reade didn't mean to try to break through by himself with the pigskin.

That much was a correct guess. Tom didn't intend anything of the sort.

All in a flash Reade, as prearranged, dropped the ball, punting it vigorously.

Up it went, soaring obliquely over Gridley's left flank and far beyond.

Just a second before the ball itself started, little Fenton had put himself in motion. By the time that the ball was in the air Fenton was past Hallam's line and scorching down the field.

Now Forsythe and every Hallam man comprehended all in a flash.

Fenton had caught the ball with a nicety that brought wild whoops from the Gridley boosters, now standing on their seats and waving the Gridley colors.

"That little fellow looks like a streak of light," yelled one Gridley booster.

The description wasn't a bad one. Fenton was doing some of the finest sprinting conceivable. Before him nothing menaced but big Harlowe, Hallam's fullback. Harlowe, however, was hurling himself straight in the impetuous way of little Fenton.

It looked like a bump. There could be but one result. Fenton would have to go down to save the ball.

Harlowe reached out to tackle.

Fenton came to a quivering stop, just out of reach. Then, almost instantly, the little left end dashed straight forward again.

But the move had been enough to fool Harlowe. Of course, he assumed that Fenton would spring to one side. Harlowe imagined that it would be a dodge to the left, and Harlowe leaped there to tackle his man.

But Fenton, actually going straight ahead, fooled the calculation of his powerful adversary and got past on the clever trick.

Harlowe dashed after his sly opponent. But Fenton, still almost with his first big breath in his lungs, was running as fast as ever. A man of Harlowe's size was no one to send after a greased mosquito like Fenton.

So nothing hindered. Amid the wildest, noisiest rooting, Fenton stepped it over Hallam's now undefended goal line, reached down and pressed the pigskin against the earth for a touchdown.

On the grand stand the noise was deafening. The whistle sounded and the flushed players of both teams came back to range up for the kick from field. Dave, his cheeks glowing, took the kick. He sent a clean one that scored one more point for Gridley.

The cheering and the playing of the band still continued when the two elevens again lined up for play during the last five minutes of the game. The referee was obliged to signal to the leader to stop his musicians.

Forsythe looked hot and weary. His expectation of an easy victory had come to naught. Unless he and ten other Hallam boys could work wonders in five minutes.

But they couldn't and didn't. The time keeper brought the game to a close.

"Gridley has handed us six to nothing," muttered Forsythe, as he led his disheartened fellows from the field. "That puts us with the other second-rate teams in the state."

"A great lot of orders you needed, didn't you?" was Captain Dick Prescott's happy greeting as Dave met him beyond the side lines.

"You won that game for us, just the same," retorted Dave.

"I?" demanded Dick, in genuine amazement.

"Yes; you, and no one else."

"How?"

"You refused to give me a hint. You threw me down hard, on my own resources. I saw all those hundreds of people demanding that Gridley win," retorted Dave. "What could I do? I had to make the fellows do something like what they've been doing under Dick Prescott, or confess myself a dub. I couldn't lean on a word from you, Dick. So you fairly drove me into planning something that would either carry off the game or make us look like chromos of football players. You wouldn't say a word, Prescott, that would take any of the blame on yourself! So didn't you force me to win!"

"That's ingenious, but not convincing," retorted Dick, as the two chums stepped into dressing quarters. "To tell you the truth, Dave, I think a good many people now believe that you ought to be the regular captain."

But Darrin only grinned. He knew better.

Some of the fellows tried to praise Fenton to his face.

"Quit! You can't get away with that," chuckled the fast little left end. "Some one had to take that ball and drop it behind Hallam's goal line. I was the one who was ordered to do it. If I hadn't, what would you fellows have said about me?"

By the time that the Hallam Heights young men were dressed several of them came to the Gridley quarters, Forsythe at their head.

"We want to shake hands," laughed Forsythe, "and to make sure that you have no hard feelings for what we tried to do to you."

Dick and Darrin took this in laughing goodfellowship.

"If you call this your dub team to-day," continued Forsythe, a bit more gloomily, "we shudder to think what would have happened to us had you put in your regular line-up."

"There isn't any dub team in Gridley," spoke Dick quickly. "All of our fellows are trained in the same way, by the same coach, and we stake all our chances on any line-up that's picked for the day. It was hard on you, gentlemen, that my knee put me out for the day. Darrin is twice as crafty as I am."

"Oh, Darrin is crafty, all right," agreed Forsythe cheerfully. "But, somehow, I like him for it."

On some of the side streets Gridley boys were allowed to light bonfires that evening, and there was general rejoicing of a lively nature. From the news that had come over concerning the Hallam Heights team there had been a good deal of fear that Gridley would, on this day, receive a set-back to its rule of always winning.

X. LEADING THE TOWN TO ATHLETICS

"Mr. Morton, we want a little word with you."

"All right—anything to please you," laughed the submaster, looking at Dick and Dave as they came up to him in the yard at recess.

"We've been thinking over a plan," Dick continued.

"It has something to do with athletics, then!" guessed the submaster.

"Yes, sir," nodded Dave.

"High School athletics, at that," continued Mr. Morton.

"There you're wrong, sir, for once," smiled Prescott. "Mr. Morton, we've been thinking of the High School gym. It's a big place. Pretty nearly three hundred gymnasts could be drilled there at once."

"Yes; I know."

"There's a fine lot of apparatus there," went on Dick. "It cost thousands and thousands of dollars to put that gym. in shape."

"And it's worth every dollar of the cost," contended Mr. Morton firmly.

"Mr. Morton," challenged Dick, "who paid for it?"

"The city government," replied the submaster.

"Where did the city government get the money?"

"From the citizens, of course."

"Now, Mr. Morton," went on Prescott, "how many of the citizens get any direct benefit out of that gym.? Only about a quarter of a thousand of High School students! Couldn't the city's money be spent so that a far greater number would have the use of and benefit from the city's big investment!"

"Why," replied the submaster, looking puzzled, "the youngsters in the lower schools have their needs provided for, in some way, in their own school buildings."

"True," agreed Dick. "But what of the small army of clerks and factory employees of Gridley? Aren't they citizens, even if they haven't the time to attend High School? Haven't our smaller business fry a right to the health and good spirits that come out of gymnastic and athletic work? Haven't our typewriters, our salesgirls and factory girls a right to some of the good things from the gym.? Aren't they all citizens, and isn't the gym. their property as much as it's anyone else's!"

"Excellent," nodded Mr. Morton. "But how do you propose to get them interested in the use of their property, even if the Board of Education will permit it?"

"The willingness of the Board of Education can be dropped out of sight," argued Dick. "The Board is the servant of the people, and must do what the people want. What Dave and I want to see is to have the High School gym. turned over to the young working people of the city in the evening time. Say, two evenings a week for young men and two evenings for the young women. We believe it will result in big gains for Gridley. When you put new life and brighter blood into the toilers, it increases the wealth of the whole city, doesn't it?"

"I declare, I think it ought to," replied Mr. Morton. "But see here, how are two boys—or, let us say, two boys and a submaster—going to bring about any such result as this?"

"By presenting it properly through the leading daily of Gridley," replied Prescott, with great promptness.

"Have you received any assurance that Mr. Pollock, of 'The Blade,' will be for this big scheme of yours?" asked Mr. Morton.

"When we've explained it all, I don't see how he can help being for it," rejoined Prescott. "If 'The Blade' takes hold and booms this idea, day in and day out, it won't be very long before evening gym. classes will be filled to overflowing. And the Board of Education would have to give way before the pressure."

Then Dave took hold of the subject for a while, talking with great earnestness. Mr. Morton listened with increasing interest.

"I think, boys, that you've hit upon an idea that will be of great service to our city," remarked the submaster. "Yet what put all this into your heads!"

"Why, sir, it's our last year at the High School," replied Dick, smiling though speaking with great earnestness. "After four years of the fine training we've had here, Dave and I feel that it's our place to do something to leave our mark behind. We've been talking it all over, and we've hit upon this idea. Will you stand by us in it?"

"Why, yes; all that I can, you may be sure. But just what do you boys expect me to be able to do!"

"Why, help us form the plans and back us up in them. You are really the leader in school athletics in this town, Mr. Morton," explained Prescott. "I can quote you in 'The Blade' as to the benefits that would result in giving gym. training to workers who can't attend High School. And, in the spring, after a winter in the gym., young men and women could form outdoor squads for running and other outside training. Altogether, sir, we think we might make Gridley famous as a place where all who possess any real energy go in to keep it up through public athletics. And such classes of young men and women could have the use of our athletics field."

By the time that recess was over the submaster certainly had enough thoughts to keep him busy.

That afternoon Dick and Dave took Mr. Morton around to "The Blade" office. Right at the outset Mr. Pollock jumped at the idea.

"Prescott," he cried, "you've sprung a big idea. 'The Blade' will feature this idea for days to come. You may have a column, or a column and a half every day, and 'The Blade' will also back it up on the editorial page. Now, go ahead and get your stuff in shape. Above all, have interviews with prominent men, especially employers, setting forth the benefit that ought to come to the young people and to the city at large. Take as your keynote the idea that the city's duty is just as great to provide physical education as it is to supply learning out of textbooks. You'll know how to go ahead on that line, Prescott."

By the next day Gridley had something new to talk about. By the time three days had passed the matter was being discussed with great seriousness.

Employers saw, and said that the time young men spent in a gym. would not be spent in billiard rooms or other resorts of a harmful or useless character. Young women who went to the gym. would be home and in bed early, instead of staying up most of the night at a dance. All who entered the gym. classes would begin to think about their bodily condition and plan to improve it. Improved bodies meant a better grade of work and increased pay.

Dick wrote splendidly on the subject. "The Blade," editorially, gave Dick & Co. full credit for springing the idea. The Board of Education, at its next meeting, authorized the superintendent of schools to throw the High School gym., open evenings for the purpose indicated. It also voted Mr. Morton an increase of pay on condition that he take charge of the evening gym. classes for young men. One of the women teachers was granted a like increase for assuming charge of the evening gym. classes for young women.

Dick Prescott, on behalf of the High School boys, guaranteed that the most skilled in athletics among the High School boys would be on hand to aid in training the young men, and in getting up sports and games for the gym. in winter, and for the athletic field in the spring.

As soon as the classes were opened they were crowded to their utmost capacity. All of the younger portion of Gridley seemed suddenly anxious to go in for athletics.

"Prescott and his well-known comrades of the High School appear to be leading in the very vanguard of athletics this year," stated "The Blade" editorially.

Dick and his friends could not, however, give as much aid to the new scheme now as they intended to do later. They were in the middle of the football season, and that had to be carried through first of all.

Yet it was a big evening for Dick, Dave and their chums when the High School gym. was thrown open for the forming of the gymnastic class for young men.

Almost three hundred presented themselves for enrollment. Scores of the leading citizens were also on hand to see how the new plan would take. Among these latter was Herr Schimmelpodt, the retired contractor, who was always such an enthusiastic booster for High School athletics.

"I tell you, Bresgott, it vos a fine idea of yours," cried the big German, as he stood in a corner, looking on, while Dick talked with him. "This vill keep young folks out of drouble, and put dem in health. It vill put Gridley to being twice as good a town, alretty."

"Hullo, Mr. Schimmelpodt," called a young clerk, passing in trunks and gym. shoes. "Don't you get into a squad to-night? This would do you a lot of good."

"Maype, if I go in for dis sort of thing, I crowd out some young mans who needs it as much as you do," retorted the German, blinking.

"But don't you think you need it, also" laughed the clerk?

"Now, led me see," pondered the German. "Young man, you think you gan run?"

"I know I can," laughed the clerk, leaping lightly up and down on his soft gym. shoes.

"I yonder if you could reach dot door ofer dere so soon alretty as I gan?" queried Herr Schimmelpodt.

"Will you run me a race?" grinned the clerk.

"Vell, you start, und ve see apout it."

Tantalizingly, the clerk started. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. There was a great noise on the floor of the gym. Herr Sclhimmelpodt had started. He was so big that he made a good deal of noise when he traveled. But he was going like a streak, and the clerk began to sprint in earnest.

It was all in vain, however. With a few great bounds Herr Schimmelpodt was close enough to reach out one of his big arms and lay hold of the fleeing clerk. That clerk stopped suddenly, with a jolt.

"Vy don't you go on running, ain't it?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt.

A crowd formed about them.

The reason why the clerk didn't continue his running was a very good one. One of the German's big hands encircled the clerk's thin arm like a bracelet of steel. The clerk struggled, but he might as well have tried to break out of irons.

"You vant me to bractise running, so dot I gan catch you, eh?" grunted the German. "You vant me to eat breakfast sawdust for a dyspepsia vot I ain't got, huh? You vant me to dake breathing eggsercises ven I can dake more air into my lungs, alretty, dan your whole body gan disblace? You vant me to do monkey-tricks mit a dumb-pell, yen I gan do things like dis?"

Suiting the action to the word, Herr Schimmelpodt grasped the clerk by one shoulder and one thigh. Up over his head the German raised the unhappy young man. Herr Schimmelpodt's arms fell and rose as he "exercised" with the young man for a wand.

Everything in the gym. had stopped. All eyes were on this novel performance. Roars of laughter greeted some new stunts that Herr Schimmelpodt performed with his human wand. The great German was the only one who seemed unconscious of the hurricane of laughter that he was causing.

At last the German put his victim back on the floor.

"Yah, young mans, I am much oblige dot you show me how I need eggsercise. I feel much better alretty."

Red-faced, the clerk fled to the other side of the room, followed by the laughter of the other gymnasts.

Yet Herr Schimmelpodt's good-natured performance had great value. It taught many of the young men present how far this generation has fallen behind in matters of personal strength. Mr. Morton had easier sailing after that.

XI. THE "KING DEED" OF DARING

"Yes; that performance helped a lot."

Herr Schimmelpodt was prevailed upon, by Mr. Morton, to come around on another evening to show some further feats with his great strength.

Around the waist-line the German was flabby; the fat rolled in heavy ridges. Feeling aware of this defect in personal appearance Herr Schimmelpodt determined to devote some of his abundant leisure to getting his belt line into smaller compass. But the German would not do this before all eyes in the public, gym. So he and some other well-to-do business men who were conscious that the years had dealt too generously by them in the matter of flesh, hired a small hall and converted it into a private gym.

It was all the doings of Dick & Co., just the same.

The town was ripe, now, for performances in extraordinary athletics. Fate willed it that there should be a chance.

Once a year an opera company of considerable prominence appeared at Gridley for one evening.

Whenever this evening came around, it was made the occasion for a big time in local society. The women of the well-to-do families turned out in their most dazzling finery.

This year "Lohengrin" was to be sung at the local opera house. Dick could have obtained, at "The Blade" office, free seats for Dave and himself for this Friday night. But they were still in close training, and there was a game on for the afternoon of the day following. For that reason nine o'clock found both of the young men in bed and asleep.

Near the opera house the street was thronged with carriages. Carriage after carriage drove up and discharged its load of handsomely dressed women and their more severely attired escorts. All of Gridley that could attend the opera were in evening dress.

During the evening a half gale of wind sprang up. While all was light and warmth inside, outside the wind howled harder and harder. By the time that the music lovers began to pour out, the blast was furious.

Leaning on the arm of her escort, as her carriage drove up to the door, one beautifully gowned woman stepped out. Over her hair was thrown a black, filmy scarf in which nestled a number of handsome diamonds.

Just as she reached the curb, but before she could step into the waiting carriage, this woman gave a shriek of dismay.

The gale had caught at her diamond-strewn head-covering. Like a flash that costly creation was caught up from her hair and borne on the wind.

Others standing by saw the costly thing whisked obliquely up into the air. It was still ascending on the blast when it passed out of the range of vision.

"O-o-o-oh! My beautiful jeweled scarf!" sobbed the woman hysterically. The crowd quickly formed about her. She was recognized as Mrs. Macey, the wife of a wealthy real estate operator.

"It was careless not to have it fastened more securely, but it's no use to cry over what can't be helped now, my dear," replied her husband. "Get into the carriage and I'll see if any trace can be found of the scarf."

Still sobbing, Mrs. Macey was helped into the carriage. Then Mr. Macey enlisted the help of the bystanders.

In every direction the street was searched. The fronts of the buildings opposite were examined; the gratings in the sidewalk were peered through. But there was no trace, anywhere, of the jeweled scarf.

"It will be worth two hundred and fifty dollars for anyone to find it and return it to me," shouted Mr. Macey. That scattered the searchers more widely still. Presently a woman friend drove home with Mrs. Macey, while her husband remained to push the search. He kept at it until two o'clock in the morning, half a hundred men and boys remaining in the search.

Then Mr. Macey gave it up. The gaudy, foolish trifle was worth about five thousand dollars. As the night wore on Mr. Macey began to have a pessimistic notion that perhaps some one had found the scarf but had been too "thrifty" to turn in such a precious article for so small a reward.

"I guess it may as well be given up," sighed Mr. Macey, after two in the morning. "I'm going home, anyway."

The readers of "The Blade" that crisp October morning knew of Mrs. Macey's loss.

There was much talk about the matter around the town. People who walked downtown early that morning peered into gutters and down through sidewalk gratings. Then, at about seven o'clock a sensation started, and swiftly grew.

One man, glancing skyward, had his attention attracted to something fluttering at the top of the spire of the Methodist church, more than half a block away from the opera house. It was fabric of some sort, and one end fluttered in the breeze, though most of the black material appeared to be wrapped around the tip of the weather vane in which the spire staff terminated.

"That's the jeweled scarf, I'll bet a month's pay!" gasped the discoverer. Then, mindful of the reward, he dashed to the nearest telephone office, asking "central" to ring insistently until an answer came over the Macey wire.

"Hullo, is that you, Mr. Macey?" called the discoverer, a teamster. "Then come straight up to the Methodist church. I'll be there. I've discovered the jeweled scarf."

"How—how many jewels are left on it?" demanded Mr. Macey.

"Come right up! I'll tell you all about it when you get here."

Then the teamster rang off, after giving his name. The real estate man came in a hurry, in a runabout. His wife, pallid and hollow-cheeked, rode in the car with him. To Mr. Macey the teamster pointed out the barely visible bit of black fluttering a hundred and sixty feet above the pavement.

"Now how about the reward, Mr. Macey?" demanded the teamster.

"That will be paid you, if you return the scarf to Mrs. Macey," replied the real estate man dryly.

The teamster's jaw dropped. For the uppermost eighteen feet of the spire consisted of a stout flagpole. Below this was the sloping slate roof of the top of the steeple proper. Only a monkey or a "steeplejack" could get up there, and on a day like this, with a half gale still blowing, a steeplejack might be pardoned for declining the task.

Swiftly the news spread, and a great crowd collected. Dave Darrin heard of it right after breakfast, and hurried to get Dick Prescott. Together the chums joined the crowd.

"You'll have to get a steeplejack for the job, Mr. Macey," the chums heard one man advise the real estate operator.

Only one was known. His home was some forty miles away. Mr. Macey tried patiently to get the man over the long distance telephone. Some member of the man's family answered for him. The expert was away, and would not be home, or available, for three days to come at least.

"Never mind, Macey," laughed the friend, consolingly. "It'll wait. No one in Gridley will take the scarf. It's safe up there."

"Huh! Is it, though?" snorted the real estate man. "At any minute the strong wind may unwind it and send it whirling off over the town. Or the gale may tear it to pieces, scattering the diamonds over a whole block, and not one in ten of the stones would ever be found."

Mrs. Macey sat in the runabout, a picture of mute misery.

Herr Schimmelpodt elbowed his way through the outskirts of the crowd and stood absorbing his share in the local excitement.

"Ach! I am afraid dere is von thing dot you gan't do, Bresgott," smiled the German. "Ach! By chimminy, though, I don't know yet."

"I was wondering myself whether I could make a good try at steeple climbing," laughed Dick eagerly. "The money sounds good to me anyway."

"No; I don't know. I think it would be foolish," replied Herr Schimmelpodt.

"I believe you could get up there, Dick," muttered Darrin, in a low voice.

"Then you could, Dave."

"I think I could," nodded Darrin. "And, by crickets, if you were here, Dick, I'd certainly try it."

"Try it anyway, then," urged Prescott.

"Not unless you balk at it," returned Darrin.

"I'm not going to balk at it," retorted Dick, flushing just a bit. "But you spoke of it first, Dave, and I think you ought to have first chance at the reward."

"Tell you what I'll do," proposed Darrin, seriously. "We'll toss for it, and the winner has the try."

"I'll go you," nodded Prescott.

Herr Schimmelpodt, regarding them both seriously, saw that they meant it.

"Boys, boys!" he remonstrated. "Don't think of it yet!"

"Why not?" asked Dick.

"You would be killed," remonstrated the big German.

"Is that the best opinion you have of us, after the way you've been praising us athletes for two years?" laughed Prescott.

"I'll toss you for it, Dick," nudged Dave.

"What's this?" demanded Mr. Macey.

"Prescott and I are going to toss for it, to see who shall have the first chance to climb the spire and flagstaff," replied Dave.

"Nonsense! Out of the question," almost exploded Mr. Macey. "It would be like murder to allow either of you to try. That's work for a regular steeplejack."

"Well, what is a steeplejack?" demanded Dick. "He's a fellow of good muscle and nerve, who can stand being in high places. Either of us could climb a flagpole from down here in the street. Why can't either of us go up there, just as well, and climb from the steeple roof?"

"Prescott, have you any idea of the strength of the wind up there?" demanded the real estate man. "It's blowing great guns up there!"

"Get some one to toss the coin, and either you or I call," insisted Darrin.

Some one told Mrs. Macey what was being proposed.

"Oh, stop them!" she cried, leaning forward from the runabout. "Boys, boys! Don't do anything wildly rash like that! I'd sooner lose the scarf than have lives risked."

"She needn't worry," sneered some one in the crowd. "The High School dudes are only bluffing. They haven't either o' them the sand to do a thing like that."

Both Prescott and Darrin heard. Both flushed, though that was all the sign they gave.

"Herr Schimmelpodt, you must have a cent," suggested Dick. "Toss it, will you, and let Darrin call the turn."

Grumbling a good deal the German produced the required coin. He fingered it nervously, for a moment, then flipped it high in the air.

"Tails!" called Dave.

It came down heads.

"Oh, well, the best two out of three," insisted Dick.

"That fellow's nerve is going already," laughed some one. "He's anxious for the other fellow to get the honor."

There was a grim twitching at the corners of prescott's mouth, but he said nothing.

Again the coin was tossed. This time Dick called:

"Heads!"

He won.

"I'm ready," announced Dick quietly.

"I congratulate you, old fellow," murmured Dave eagerly. "And I'm going with you to the base of the flagpole! The last climb is yours you've won it!"

XII. THE NERVE OF THE SOLDIER

Again Mrs. Macey sought to interpose. Her husband, too, was at first against it.

But, now that the die was fairly cast, Herr Schimmelpodt firmly championed the boys.

"Eider von of dem gan do it—easy!" declared the big German. "You don't know dem boys—-vot? Ach, I do. Dey got der brain, der nerves und der muscle."

"It's a crime to let such youths attempt the thing," shivered an anaemic-looking man in the crowd. "Whichever one goes up that flagstaff will come down again faster. He'll be killed!"

"Cheer up some more," advised Herr Schimmelpodt stolidly. "It don't gost you nottings, anyway. If Dick Bresgott preak his neck soon, I gif him der bulliest funeral dot any boy in Gridley efer hat."

"But what good——" began the nervous man tremulously.

"Talk ist cheap," retorted Herr Schimmelpodt, with a wink, "mid dot's all I haf to bay for dot funeral. Dick Bresgott ain't fool enough yet to preak der only neck he has."

At this a jolly laugh went around, relieving the tension a bit, for there were many in the crowd who had begun to feel mighty serious as soon as they realized that Dick was in earnest.

Some one brought the janitor of the church. A hardware dealer near by came along with two coils of rope, which he thought might be handy.

Mr. Macey went inside with the janitor and the two chums. A score or two more would have followed, but the janitor called to Herr Schimmelpodt to bar the way, which the big German readily did.

Then the four inside began to climb the winding staircase to the bell loft.

"Go slowly, Dick; loaf," counseled Dave. "Don't waste a bit of your wind foolishly."

At the bell loft all four paused to look down at the crowd.

Now up a series of ladders the four were obliged to climb, inside the spire top. This spire top was thirty-six feet above the floor of the bell loft; but eight feet from the top of the spire a window let out upon a narrow iron gallery that ran around the spire.

"I—I don't believe I'll step out there," faltered Mr. Macey, who was stout and apoplectic-looking.

"I don't blame ye any," agreed the janitor. "It ain't just the place, out there, for a man o' your weight and years."

"Don't look down at the street, Dick," begged Dave.

"Why not?" asked Prescott, deliberately disobeying. "If I couldn't do that without getting dizzy, it would be foolish to climb the pole."

"Prescott, you'd better not try it," protested Mr. Macey. "Just listen to how strong the wind is at this height. I'm afraid you'll be dashed down to the ground. Gracious! Hear the flagstaff rattle."

"I expected it," replied Dick, sitting down, inside the spire top.

"What are you doing?" demanded the real estate man.

"Taking off my shoes," Dick replied coolly.

"Do you really mean to make the attempt?"

"You don't think a Gridley boy would back out at this late moment?" queried Dick, in surprise.

"Ye couldn't stop these younkers, now, by force," chuckled the janitor.

"I certainly wouldn't care to try force," remarked Mr. Macey dryly. "These young men are too well developed."

Dave was now on the floor, getting off his shoes.

"What are you going to do, old fellow?" asked Prescott.

"Going to follow you as far as the top of the spire," replied Darrin quietly. "Who knows but I may be able to be of some use?"

Dave stepped out first on the little iron balcony. The crowd below saw him, but at the distance could not make out clearly which boy it was. Then Prescott followed.

"Give me one foot," called Dave, kneeling and making a cup of his hands.

Dick placed his foot, then started to climb the sloping surface of slate, Darrin aiding.

As Dave straightened to a standing position Dick reached up, getting hold of the base of the flagstaff.

"Hold on there, a minute," advised Dave, as his chum stood on the little ledge at the top of the spire. "And don't be foolish enough to look down into the street."

Dave darted inside, picking up the lighter of the ropes. Going out on the balcony again Darrin tossed one end of the rope to Dick, who made it fast around the flagpole.

Using the rope, Dave went easily up and stood beside Prescott.

"There is a fearful wind here," muttered Dick, as both swayed while holding to the stout, vibrating mast. "But you can make it, old fellow."

It had been the original intention in building the church to use this mast as a flag pole. Then some doubt had arisen among the members of the parish. A weather vane had been put at the top of the pole, and the question of connecting flag tackle had been left to be decided at a later date.

Had the flag tackle been there now Dick could have made an easier problem of the ascent; yet, even with the rope, it would have been an undertaking from which most men would have shrunk.

"I'm going to start now," said Dick very quietly.

"Good luck, Dick, old fellow!" called Dave cheerily. "You'll get through."

Darrin still remained standing on top of the spire after Dick had started to climb.

The only way that Prescott could move upward was to wrap arms and legs around the pole.

How the wind swayed, jarred and vibrated it! Once, when ten feet of the ascent had been accomplished, Dick felt his heart fail him.

A momentary impulse, almost of cowardice, swept over him.

Then he steeled himself, and went on and up.

That staff must be more than a mile high, it now seemed to the boy, hanging there in momentary danger of his life.

Dave, standing below, looking up, knew far more torment.

Watching Dick, Darrin began to feel wholly responsible for the whole awful predicament of his chum.

"I urged him on to it," thought Dave, with a rush of horror that his own peril could not have brought to him. "Oh, I hope the splendid old fellow does make this stunt safely!"

It seemed as though thousands were packed in the street below, every face upturned. The breath of the multitude came short and sharp. Two women and a girl fainted from the strain.

In a window in the building across the street a photographer poised his camera. Behind the shutter was a long-angled lens, fitted for taking pictures at a distance.

Just as Dick Prescott's arms were within two feet of the weather vane the photographer exposed his plate.

Dick, in the meantime, was moving in a sort of dumb way now. The keenness of his senses had left him. He moved mechanically; he knew what he was after, and he kept on. Yet he seemed largely to have lost the power to realize the danger of his position.

A-a-ah! He was up there now, holding to the weathervane! His legs curled doggedly around the flagstaff. He had need now to use all the strength in his legs, for he must use one hand to disentangle the black scarf, which lay twisted about the vane just over his head. But it was the right scarf. The glint and dazzle of the diamonds was in his eyes.

How the extreme end of that flag pole quivered. It seemed to the boy as though the pole must bend and snap, what with the pressure of the heavy wind and the weight of his body!

Slowly, laboriously, mechanically, like one in a trance, Dick employed his left hand in patiently disentangling the black web from the trap in which it had been caught.

At last the scarf was free. Most cautiously Dick lowered his left hand, tucking the jeweled fabric carefully into the inner pocket of his coat.

"I—I—guess—it safe—in there," he muttered, hardly realizing that he was saying any thing.

Dave, from below, had looked on, fascinated. Now that he saw the major part of the daring feat accomplished, Darrin did not make the mistake of shouting any advice to his comrade. He knew that any sudden shout might attract Prescott's attention in a way to cause him to lose his head.

Slowly—oh, so slowly! Dick came down. It seemed as though, at last, he understood his danger to the full and was afraid. The truth was, Prescott realized that, with all the vibrating of the staff in the wind, his muscular power was being sapped out of him.

Dave Darrin was down again, crouching on top of the spire, when Dick reached him.

"Just touch your feet, Dick!" Darrin called coolly. "Then stand holding to the pole until I get down into the balcony."

Dick obeyed as one who could no longer think for himself.

This done, Dave slipped down the spire's slope, by the aid of the rope, until his feet touched the balcony's floor. Now he stood with upturned face and arms uplifted.

"Use the rope and come down, Dick," hailed. Darrin softly. "I'm here to catch you, if you need it."

Down came Prescott, holding to the rope, but helped more by Dave's loyal arms.

"Help Prescott inside, you two," Dave ordered sharply. Then, after the men inside the spire top had obeyed, Dave swung himself in. He left the rope fastened above, for whoever cared to go and get it.

Mr. Macey, ashen faced and shaking, stared at Dick in a sort of fascination.

"I—I got it," said Dick, when he could control his voice. "Here it is, safe in my pocket."

"I forgot to ask," rejoined Mr. Macey tremulously. "I'm sick of that bauble. Ever since you started aloft, Prescott, I've been calling myself all sorts of names for being a party to this thing."

"Why, it's all right," laughed Dick, only a bit brokenly. "It was easy enough—with a fellow like Dave to help."

"Did he go up the flagstaff, too?" demanded Mr. Macey, opening his eyes wider.

"No," declared Darrin promptly. "Prescott did it."

"But good old Dave was right at hand to help," Dick contended staunchly.

"Get yourselves together, boys. Then we'll get down out of here," urged Mr. Macey. "I haven't done anything, but I feel as though I'd be the one to reel and faint."

"Take this scarf, now, please," begged Dick, holding open his coat.

The real estate man looked over the bauble that had placed two manly lives in such desperate jeopardy. The fabric was much torn, but all the precious stones still appeared to be there.

Mr. Macey folded the scarf and placed it in one of his own inner pockets.

"Now, let us get down out of here," begged the real estate man. "This place is giving me the horrors."

"You can start ahead, sir," laughed Dave. "But we want time to put our shoes on."

Two or three minutes later the four started below, going slowly over the ladder part of the route. When they struck the winding staircase they went a bit more rapidly.

Down in the street it seemed to the watchers as though ages had passed since the two boys had been seen going inside from the iron balcony.

But now, at last, Herr Schimmelpodt heard steps inside, so he threw open the heavy door at once.

As Dick and Dave came out again into the sunlight what a mighty roar of applause and cheering went up.

Then Herr Schimmelpodt, advancing to the edge of the steps, and laying one hand over his heart, bowed profoundly and repeatedly.

That turned the cheering to laughter. The big German held up his right hand for silence.

"Ladies und chentlemen," shouted Herr Schimmelpodt, as soon as he could make him self heard, "I don't vant to bose as a hero!"

"That's all right," came with a burst of goodhumored laughter. "You're not!"

"It vos really nottings vot I did," continued the German, with another bow.

"True for you."

"Maybe," continued Herr Schimmelpodt, "you think I vos afraid when I climb dot pole. But I wos not—I pledch you mein vord. It is nottings for me to climb flagpoles. Ven I vos ein poy in Germany I did it efery day. But I will not dake up your time mit idle remarks. I repeat dot I am not ein hero."

The wily old German had played out his purpose. He had turned the wild cheering, which he knew would have embarrassed Prescott, into a good-natured laugh. He had diverted the first big burst of attention away from the boys, much to the relief of the latter.

But now the crowd bethought itself of the heroes that a crowd always loves. Hundreds pressed about to shake the bands of Prescott and Darrin.

"Get into my car! Stand up in front of Mrs. Macey and myself until we can get out of this crowd," urged Mr. Macey, bustling the boys toward the runabout.

Mrs. Macey, whitefaced, was crying softly and could not speak. But her husband, with the two boys standing up before him, honked his horn and turned on the power, starting the car slowly. A path was thus made for their escape through the crowd, though the cheering began again.

"Now, you can put us down, if you will, sir,", suggested Dick, when they had reached the outer edge of the crowd.

"Not yet," retorted Mr. Macey.

"Why not, sir?"

"You've a little trip to make with me yet."

"Trip?"

"Wait a moment, and you'll see."

Less than two minutes later Mr. Macey drove his car up in front of one of the banks and jumped out.

"Come on, boys," he cried. "I want to get that reward off my mind."

"You run in, Dick," proposed Dave, on the sidewalk. "I'll wait for you."

"You'll go with me," Prescott retorted, "or I won't stir inside."

So Darrin followed them into the bank.

"I'm so thankful to see you boys safely out of the scrape," declared Mr. Macey, inside, "that I'm going to pay the full reward to each of you."

"No you won't," retorted Dick very promptly. "You'll pay no more than you offered. Dave and I'll divide that between us."

"Not a cent for me!" propounded Darrin, with emphasis.

"If you don't share the reward evenly, I won't touch a cent of it either, Dave Darrin," rejoined Dick heatedly.

Dave tried to have his way, but his chum won. Mr. Macey made another effort to double the reward, but was overruled.

So young Prescott received the two hundred and fifty dollars in crisp, new bills, and as promptly turned half of the sum over to his chum.

Now that it was safely over with, it had not been a bad morning's work!

XIII. DICK BEGINS TO FEEL OLD

Despite the strain of what they had gone through Dick and Dave led the Gridley boys through a fierce gridiron battle that same afternoon, and won again by a score of 13 to 5.

But the people of Gridley paid little heed to the score that day, or the next. The sensation that Dick and Dave had supplied was the talk of the town, to the exclusion of other topics relating to high School boys.

Mr. Pollock bought a copy of the photograph showing Dick close to the weather vane on his climb. A half-tone cut made from this photograph was printed in "The Blade."

"This young man is now a member of 'The Blade' staff, reporting school and other matters," ran the comment under the spirited picture. "We believe that Mr. Prescott will continue to be a member of the staff, and to grow with 'The Blade.'"

"What about that, Dick?" laughed Darrin.

"I've told Mr. Pollock and Mr. Bradley that I believe my plans will carry me a good distance away from 'The Blade' office after this year," replied Dick, with a meaning smile. "If they won't believe me now, perhaps they'll wake up later."

The town had not been wanting in croakers at the outset of the football season, who had predicted that Dick Prescott and his chums would "drag down" the football team and its fine traditions from past years.

But the eleven, mainly under Dick and under Dave's captaincy in two fierce gridiron battles, had gone right along winning games.

The last three battles had been fought out to a successful finish in November. There now remained only the Thanksgiving Day game to complete the season.

By all traditions each football team in the country strives to have its biggest fight take place on Thanksgiving Day. By another tradition, every team seeks to have this game take place on the home grounds.

In the latter respect Gridley lost this year. The game, which was against Fordham High School, was scheduled to take place at Fordham.

Enthusiasm, however, was at top notch. Citizens hired the Gridley Band to go along with the young men and help out on noise. A special train in two sections was chartered, for some seven hundred Gridleyites had voted in favor of an evening dinner on Thanksgiving Day; they were going along to see the game.

Fordham had lost two games, against exceptionally strong teams, earlier in the season, but had of late a fine record. Fordham had dropped several of its original players, putting in heavier or better men, and a new coach had been employed. The Fordham boys were now believed to be able to put up a strenuous game.

"I hope you're going to win, Prescott," said Mr. Macey, meeting Dick on the street one afternoon not long before Thanksgiving.

"Have you any doubts, sir?" smiled the captain of the Gridley team.

"Well, you see, Fordham was my native town. I run down there often, and I know a good deal of what's going on there. Fordham's second coach has attended the last two games you played, and he has been stealing all your points that he could get."

"He has, eh?" muttered Prescott. "That's news to me. Oh, well, it's legitimate to learn all you can about another team's play."

"From the reports Fordham has of your play the young men over in that town are certain that they're enough better to be able to bring your scalps into camp."

"Perhaps they'll do it," laughed Dick pleasantly. "We'll admit that we're about due for a walloping whenever the crowd comes along that can do it."

"I am only telling you what I hear from Fordham," continued Mr. Macey.

"And I'm glad you did, sir. We'll try to turn the laugh on Fordham."

"Then you think you can beat 'em?"

"No, sir. We never think we can. We always know that we can! That's the Gridley way—the Gridley spirit. We always win our battles before we go into them, Mr. Macey. We make up our minds that we can't and won't be beaten. It isn't just brag, though. We base all our positiveness on the way that we stick to our training and coaching, and on our discipline. Mr. Macey, this is the third year that I've been playing on different Gridley High School teams. I remember a tie game, but no defeats."

"I guess Fordham will find it a hard enough proposition to down you young men," remarked Mr. Macey.

"They're going to discover, sir, that they simply can't do it. Gridley never goes onto any field to get beaten."

"Und dot isn't brag, neider," broke in a man who had halted to listen. "Ven dese young men pack deir togs to go away, dey pack der winning score in der bag, too. Ach! Don't I know dot? Don't I make mineself young vonce more by following dese young athletes about?"

Herr Schimmelpodt looked utterly shocked that anyone should think it possible for another High School eleven to take a game from Gridley.

Dick soon encountered Dave and told him the news he had gleaned from Mr. Macey.

"Been sending their second coach over to watch our play, have they?" laughed Darrin softly. "That seems to show how much they fear us in Fordham."

"I believe we are going to have a stiff game," muttered Prescott. "Hallam Heights and Fordham are the only two teams that think enough of the game to hire two coaches."

"Well, we have Hallam's scalp dangling down at the gym.," laughed Dave Darrin.

"And we'll have Fordham's in the same way," predicted Dick confidently.

It barely occurred to the young captain of the team to wonder what it would mean for him if the game to Fordham should be lost. Dick would be the first captain in years who had lost a football game for Gridley. It would be a mean record to take out of High School life. But Dick gave no thought to such a possibility.

"Of course we're going to wallop Fordham," he thought. "I wish only one thing. I'd like to see the Fordhams play through a stiff game just once."

It was too late, however, to give any real thought to this, for Fordham's next and last game of the season was to be the one with Gridley.

"Are you girls going to the game?" asked Dick, when he and his chum met Laura Bentley and Belle Meade before the post office.

"Haven't you heard what the girls are doing, Dick?" questioned Laura, looking at him in some surprise.

"I have heard that a lot of the girls are going to the game."

"Just forty-two of us, to be exact," Laura continued. "We girls and our chaperons are to have one car in the first section. You see, we've arranged to go right along with the team. We have our seats all together at Fordham, too."

"My, what a lot of noise forty-two girls can make in a moment of enthusiasm!" murmured Dave.

"We can, if you give us any excuse," advanced Belle.

"Oh, we'll give you excuse enough. See to it that you keep the noise up to the grade of our playing."

"Mr. Confident!" teased Belle.

"Why, you know, as well as we do, that we'll come home with Fordham's scalp!" retorted, Darrin.

"You've heard some of the talk about Fordham's confidence in winning, haven't you?" asked Laura, a bit anxiously.

"Yes," nodded Dick. "But that doesn't mean anything. You know the Gridley record, the Gridley spirit and confidence."

"Still," objected Belle, "one side has to lose, and the Fordham boys have all the stuff ready to light bonfires on Thanksgiving night."

"Have you any particular friends over in Fordham?" asked Dave Darrin, with a sudden swift, significant look.

"No, I haven't," retorted Belle hastily. "And I hope, with all my heart, that Gridley gains the only points that are allowed. Yet, sometimes, so much confidence all the while seems just a bit alarming."

"I won't say another word, then, until after the game," promised Darrin meekly.

"And then——?"

"Oh, I'll turn half girl, and say 'I told you so,'" mimicked Dave good-humoredly.

It would have been hard to find anyone in Gridley who would have said openly that he expected the home boys to be beaten; but there were many who knew that they were more than a bit anxious. Before the game, anyway, Fordham's brag was just as good as Gridley brag.

"Won't you be glad, anyway, when the Thanksgiving game is over?" asked Laura.

"Yes, and no," smiled Prescott seriously. "When I come back from Fordham I shall know that I have captained my last game on a High School team. That tells me that I am getting along in life—that I am growing old, and shall soon have to think of much more serious things. But, honestly, I hate awfully to think of all these grand old High School days coming to an end. I mustn't think too much about it until after the game. It makes me just a bit blue."

"Won't you be captain of the basket ball team this winter?" asked Laura quickly.

"No; I can't take everything. Hudson will probably head the basket ball team."

"Why, I heard that you were going in hard for basket ball."

"So I am. Mr. Morton is so busy, with the new evening training classes, that he has asked me to be second coach to the basket ball crowd. I'll undoubtedly do that."

"Oh, then you'll still be leading the athletic vanguard at the High School," murmured Laura, and, somehow, there was a note of contentment in her voice.

"I shall be, until I'm through with the High School," Prescott answered. "But think—just think—how soon that will come around for all of us!"

XIV. FORDHAM PLAYS A SLUGGING GAME

For half an hour before the first section of the special pulled out, the Gridley Band played its liveliest tunes. A part of the time the band played accompaniment to the school airs, which the crowd took up with lively spirit.

There is a peculiar enthusiasm which attaches to the Thanksgiving Day game. This is due partly to the extra holiday spirit of the affair. Then, too, there is the high tension that precedes the last game of the season.

With a team that has won every game to that point, yet often with great difficulty, the tension of spirits is even higher.

As the first section of the special rolled in at the railway station the part of the crowd that was "going" began to break up into groups headed for the different parts of the train.

Herr Schimmelpodt went, of course, to the car that carried the team. The boys wouldn't have been satisfied to start or to travel without him. The big German had come to be the mascot of Gridley High School.

Just before the train started Herr Schimmelpodt waddled out to the rear platform of the car.

In his right hand he brandished a massive cane to which the Gridley High School colors were secured.

"Now, listen," he bellowed out. "Ve come back our scalps not wigs! You hear dot, alretty?"

While the cheering was still going on, and while the band was crashing out music, the first section pulled out, making room for the second section.

A run of a little more than an hour at good speed, and with no way stops, brought the Gridley invading forces to Fordham.

At the depot, the local team's second coach awaited the players. He had two stages at hand, into which the team and subs piled. A wagon followed, carrying the kits of the Gridley boys. There were two more stages for the band. All the other travelers had to depend on the street-car service.

Finding the stages rather crowded, Dick nudged Darrin, then made for the kit wagon.

"I really believe we'll have more comfort, Dave," proposed Prescott, "if we get aboard, this rig and ride on top of the tog bags."

The suggestion was carried out at once.

"I'll drive along fast, if you want," proposed the driver, "and get the togs down to the grounds ahead of your team."

"If you please," nodded Dick. "Our boys will want everything ready when they reach the grounds."

So the two chums were quickly carried beyond the noise and confusion. A few minutes later the wagon turned in at the Fordham Athletic grounds.

The Fordham High School boys were out in the field, practicing. As seen in their padded togs they were an extra-bulky looking lot.

"Great Scott!" grunted Darrin, half disgustedly. "Each one of those Fordham fellows must weigh close to a ton."

"The more weight the less speed, anyway," laughed Dick good-humoredly.

"And, look! I wonder how old some of those fellows are," continued Darrin. "I wonder if, in this town, men wait until they've made their fortunes and retired, before they enter High School. Why, some of these Fordham fellows must have voted for president the last two times."

"Hardly as bad as that, I guess," smiled Prescott. "Still, these Fordham boys do look more like a college eleven than a High School crowd."

Dave continued to gaze over at the home team, and to scowl, until the wagon was halted before dressing quarters. Here the teamster and another man made short work of carrying in all the tog-bags.

A few minutes later the other fellows arrived.

"Say, which team is it we're fighting to-day?" demanded Hudson. "Harvard, or Yale?"

There was general grumbling comment.

"I think," insisted Tom Reade, "that the Fordham team wouldn't like to stand a searching hunt into the eligibility of some of their players."

"They've surely brought in some who are not regular, fair-and-square High School students," contended Dan Dalzell.

There was much more talk of this sort, some of the Gridley boys insisting that Fordham ought to be compelled to account for the size and seeming age of some of the home players.

"We're up against a crooked line-up, or I'll give up," muttered Greg Holmes.

"Now, see here, fellows," laughed Captain Dick. "I don't believe in making any fuss beforehand. We'll just go ahead and take what comes to us."

"It would be too late to make a kick after we've played," cried some one.

"You fellows," continued Dick, "make me think of what I heard Mr. Pollock say to Wilcox, chairman of the campaign committee back home."

"What was that?" demanded half a dozen.

"Why," chuckled Prescott, "Mr. Pollock said to Wilcox: 'Now, see here, there's always a chance that the election will go our way. So never yell fraud until after the election is over.'"

"I guess that's the wisest philosophy," laughed Coach Morton, who had taken no part in the previous conversation.

"If that's the Fordham team," continued Dick, "it's one of pretty sizable fellows. But we'll do our plain duty, which is to pile out on to the field and proceed to stroll through any line that is posted in our way."

Just before the Gridley youngsters were ready to go out for preliminary practice the big Fordham fellows came off the field.

"Hullo!" piped Dave, as the Gridley boys strolled out to the gridiron. "You ought to feel happy, Dick. There's a big section of West Point over on the grand stand."

Nearly two hundred young men in black and gray cadet uniforms of the United States Military Academy pattern sat in a solid block at one point on the grand stand.

"No, they're not West Pointers," sighed Dick. "See here, those fellows, of course, are students at the Fordham Military institute. They wear the West Point uniform. And that's the military school that Phin Drayne went to."

"The sneak!" grunted Dave. "I wonder if he's over in that bunch, now."

"I'm not even enough interested to wonder," returned Prescott. "He's where he can't do us any harm, anyway."

"But, if the Fordham boys put anything over us, I'll bet Drayne has things timed so that the military boys will do a big and noisy lot of boasting."

"They will, anyway, if we allow them a chance," answered Dick. "Now, spread out, fellows," he called, raising his voice.

In the next moment the ball was in lively play.

The first time that a fumble was made a jeering chorus sounded among the military school boys.

"I expected it," growled Darrin.

"We don't care, anyway," smiled Dick. "Let 'em hoot! I don't draw the line until they throw things."

"If they knew Phin Drayne as we do, they'd throw him first," grimaced Darrin.

A minute later another hoot went up. It was plain that the military school boys had been primed for this.

But the gray-clad youths, it was very soon evident, were not the only ones who had come out to make a noise. Half of the Fordham crowd present joined in the volleys of derision that were showered down on the practicing boys from Gridley.

"It's nothing but a mob!" declared Darrin, his eyes flashing.

"Careful, old fellow," counseled Prescott coolly. "They're trying to get our nerve before the game begins. Don't let 'em do it."

This excellent instruction Dick contrived to pass throughout his team. Thereafter the Gridley boys seemed not to hear the harsh witticisms that were hurled at them from all sides of the field.

Just in the nick of time the Gridley Band began playing. That stopped the annoyance for a while, for Fordham had neglected to provide a band.

Yet when the Gridley High School song was started by the band, and the Gridley boosters joined in the words, the answer from Fordham came in the form of a "laughing-song," let loose with such volume that the Gridley offering to the merriment was drowned out.

"I hope we can give this rough town a horrible thumping—that's all," muttered Dave, his eyes flashing.

"Don't let them capture your 'goat,' and we will," Dick promised, as quietly as ever.

The plain hostility of the home crowd was wearing in on more than one of the Gridley boys. Dick felt obliged to call his eleven together, and to give them some quiet, homely but forcible advice. Coach Morton followed, with more in the same line.

Yet it came as a welcome relief to the Gridley youngsters when the referee and the other officials came to the field and game was called.

Dick Prescott won the toss, and took the kickoff.

That, of course, sent the ball into Fordham ranks. In an instant the solid Fordham line emitted a murmur that sounded like a bear's growl, then came thundering down upon the smaller Gridley youngsters.

There was a fierce collision, but Gridley held on like a herd of bulls. The ball was soon down.

For five minutes or so there was savage playing. Fordham played a "slugging" game of the worst kind. Several foul tackles were quickly made by home players, yet so quickly released that the referee could not be sure and could not inflict a penalty. Sly blows were struck when the lines came together.

The average football captain would have claimed penalties, and fought the matter out.

But Dick Prescott let matters run by. He was waiting his opportunity.

So hard was the "slugging," so overbearing and ruthlessly unfair was the Fordham charge that, at the end of five minutes, Gridley was forced to make a safety, losing two points at the outset.

"Yah!" sneered an exultant voice from the ranks of the military school. "That's the fine Captain Prescott we've heard about!"

Tom Reade, in togs, was standing among the Gridley subs at the side line.

Tom recognized, as did all the Gridley boys, the voice of Phin Drayne.

"Yes!" bellowed Tom, facing the gray-clad group. "And that last speaker was a fellow who was expelled from Gridley High School for selling out his team!"

It was a swift shot and a bull's-eye. The Fordham Institute boys had no answer ready for that. Half of them turned to stare at Phin Drayne, whose guilty face, with color coming and going in flashes seemed to admit the truth of Reade's taunt.

"Dick," growled Darrin, as they moved forward, after the safety, to Gridley's twenty-five yard line, "these Fordham fellows are simply ruffians. They're fouling us every second, and they'll smash half our fellows into the hospital."

"We'll see about that!"

Dick Prescott's voice was as quiet and cool as ever, but there was an ominous flash in his eyes.

XV. "WE'LL PLAY THE GENTLEMAN'S GAME."

At the next down Dan Dalzell held up his hand, making a dash for the referee.

"I claim a foul!" he called.

"Captain, this is for you," announced the referee, turning to Dick. "Be quick, if you've any complaint to make."

"Come here, Dalzell," called Prescott. "What was the foul?"

The Fordham players crowded about, muttering in an ugly way—all except one man, who skulked at the rear.

"There's the hoodlum," continued Dan excitedly, one hand over his left breast. He pointed to the Fordham player skulking at the rear. "That fellow deliberately gave me the elbow over the heart when we came together."

"What have you to say, Captain Barnes?" demanded the referee, turning to the Fordham leader.

"It's not true," retorted Barnes hotly. "Daniels, come here."

The matter was argued quickly and hotly, Gridley accusing, Fordham hotly denying.

"Can't you Gridley fellows play with anything but your mouths?" snarled Captain Barnes.

"We play a straight game," retorted Dick coldly. "We play like gentlemen."

"Do you mean that we're not?" demanded Barnes swaggeringly.

"So far you've played like a lot of sluggers."

"See here! I've a good mind to thrash you, Prescott!" quivered Barnes.

"It's always the truth that stings," retorted Dick, with a cool smile.

"My fist would hurt, too."

"That's what we're asking you to do—to save all your slugging and bruising tactics until after a straight and gentlemanly game has been played," retorted Dick, with spirit.

Barnes clenched his fists, but the referee stepped squarely in between the rival captains.

"Cut it!" directed that official tersely. "I'll do all the talking myself. Captain Barnes, return to your men and tell them that slugging and tricky work will be watched for more carefully, and penalized as heavily as the rules allow. If it goes too far I'll declare the game forfeited to the visiting team."

"This is a shame!" fumed Barnes. "And the whole charge is a mass of lies."

"I'll watch out and see," promised—or threatened—the referee. "Back to your positions. Captain Barnes, I'll give you thirty seconds to pass the word around among your men."

"That black-haired prize-fighter with the mole on his chin tries to give me his knee every time we meet in a scrimmage," growled Hudson to Dick. "If he carries it any further, I think I know a kick that will put his ankle out of business!"

"Then don't you dare use it," warned Dick sternly. "No matter what the other fellows do, our team is playing a square, honest game every minute of both halves!"

The referee had signaled them to positions. The Gridley boys leaped into place.

Play was resumed. In the next three plays Fordham, under the now more keenly watchful eyes of the officials, failed to make the required distance, and lost the ball.

Gridley took the ball, now. In the next two plays, the smaller fellows advanced the ball some twelve yards. But in the next three plays following, they lost on downs, and Fordham again carried the pigskin.

"The Fordham fellows are passing a lot of whispers every chance they get," reported alert Dave.

"I don't care how much they whisper," was Dick's rejoinder. "But watch out for crooked tricks."

Minute after minute went by. Gridley got the ball down to the enemy's fifteen-yard line, then saw it slowly forced back into their own territory.

Now Fordham began to "slug" again; yet so cleverly was it done that the officials could not put their fingers on a definite instance that could be penalized.

Bravely fighting, Gridley was none the less driven back. From the ten-yard line Fordham suddenly made a right end play on which the whole weight and force of the team was concentrated. In the mad crush, three or four Gridley boys were "slugged" in the slyest manner conceivable. Fordham broke through the line, carrying the pigskin over the goal line with a rush.

Fordham boosters set up a roar that seemed to make the ground shake, but the two hundred boys from the military school took little or no part in the demonstration. Tom Reade's reply to Phin Drayne had silenced them.

Swaggering like swashbucklers Fordham followed the ball back for the kick for goal. It was made, securing six points, which were added to the two received from Gridley being forced to make that safety earlier in the game.

"Of all the miserable gangs of rowdies!" uttered Dave Darrin, as the teams rested in quarters between the halves.

"I have two black-and-blue spots to show, I know I have," muttered Hudson.

"We'll have some of our men on stretchers, if this thing keeps up," growled Greg Holmes.

"What are you going to do about this business, Captain?" demanded two or three of the fellows, in one breath.

"As long as we play," replied Dick Prescott, "we'll play the same gentleman's game, no matter what the other fellows do. We may quit, but we won't slug. We won't sully Gridley's good name for honest play. And we won't quit, either, until Mr. Morton orders us from the field."

"You have it right, Prescott," nodded the coach. "And I shan't interfere, either, unless things get a good deal worse than they have been. But the Fordham work has been shameful, and I don't blame any of you for feeling that you'd rather forfeit the game and walk off the field."

Besides being coach, Mr. Morton was also manager. At his call the team would have left the field instantly, despite any other orders from the referee. It always makes a bad showing, however, for a team to leave the field on a claim of foul playing.

"All out for the second half!" sounded a voice in the doorway.

The Gridley boys went, fire in their hearts, flame in their eyes.

XVI. GRIDLEY'S LAST CHARGE

"Remember, Captain Barnes!" called the referee significantly.

"Why don't you talk to Prescott, too?" demanded the Fordham captain sulkily.

"I don't need to."

"You—-don't—need to?" demanded Barnes, opening his eyes in pretended wonder.

"No; Prescott and his fellows have a magnificent reputation for fair play, and they've won it on merit."

"You're down on us," growled Captain Barnes.

"I'm only waiting till I can put my finger on some slugging to stop the game and hand it to Gridley," retorted the referee, with a snap.

"Be mighty careful, fellows; be clever," whispered the Fordham captain to his most "dependable" men.

"Are we going to throw the game?" demanded the slugger who had so angered Hudson.

"No; but don't get caught at anything. Better not do anything. We've got those milk-diet infants eight to nothing now. Play their own kind of kindergarten game as long as we can hold the score without rough work."

Barnes's own instructions would have sufficiently stamped his team, had these orders been heard by anyone else.

At the beginning of the second half Fordham played a much more honest game, and Gridley began to pick up hope that fairness might prevail hereafter.

Gridley's own game, in the second half, was as swift and scientific as it had ever been. By sheer good playing and brilliant dashes Dick and his men carried the ball down the field, losing it once on downs; but after the first ten minutes of the half they kept the pigskin wholly in Fordham territory.

Back and forth surged the battle. Fordham, despite its greatly superior weight and bulk, was not by any means superior when under the utmost watchfulness of a referee avowedly anxious to penalize.

Yet, until the game was nearly over, Fordham managed to keep the ball away from its own goal line.

Then, while the lines reformed and Dick bent over to snap back, Dave Darrin called out a signal that electrified the whole Gridley line. It called for one of their most daring plays, that Prescott himself made famous the year before.

While the start, after the ball was in play, seemed directed toward the right wing of Gridley, the ball was actually jumped to little Fenton, at the left end, and Fenton, backed solidly by a superb interference, got off and away with the ball. In a twinkling he had it down behind Fordham's goal line.

Then the ball went back for the kick. The band played a few spirited measures while the wearied Gridley boosters suddenly rose and whooped themselves black in the face.

The kick, too, was won.

"Oh, well." growled Barnes, "we have two points to the good yet, and only four minutes and a half left for the game. Don't get rough, fellows, unless you have to."

As the Gridley boys sprang to a fresh line-up their eyes were glowing.

"Remember, fellows, the time is short, but battles have been won in two minutes!"

This was the inspiring message flashed out by Captain Dick Prescott.

With all the zeal of race horses the Gridley High School boys flung themselves into their work.

After a minute and a half of play, Gridley had done so much that, just before the next snapback Barnes let his sulky eyes flash about him in a way that was understood.

Fordham must rush in, now, and hold the enemy back, no matter at what cost of roughness—if the roughness could be done slyly enough.

Then it came, a fierce, frenzied charge. The ball was down again in an instant, and Hazelton, a Gridley man, lay on the field, unable to rise.

Physicians hurried out from the side lines.

"Broken leg," said one of them, and a stretcher was brought.

"Have we got to stand this sort of thing?" demanded Hudson, in a hoarse whisper. "Say the word, and I'll send two of their men after Hazelton."

"Don't you do it!" snapped Dick sharply. "It would disgrace our school colors and our school honor. Don't let knaves make a knave of you."

Tom Reade came out on a swift run from the side lines to take Hazelton's place.

"We ought to be allowed to carry guns, when we play a team like this one," blurted Tom indignantly.

"We'll pay them back in the score," retorted Dick soberly, though his eyes were flashing.

Dave, in the meantime, was swiftly passing some orders Dick had whispered to him. These orders, however, related to plays to come, and did not call for retaliation on Hazelton's account.

Play was called sharply. "Pay in the score," became the battle cry raging in every Gridley boy's heart.

Four successive plays carried the ball so close to the Fordham goal line that Barnes and his followers were in despair.

They still used whatever rough tricks they thought they could sneak in under the eyes of the game's officials, and some of these made the Gridley boys ache.

Then came a signal beginning with "three" which stood for reverse signal. The numerals that came after the three called for the same trick that Fenton had put through so splendidly.

Again the ball started toward the right wing. This time the Fordham players were sure they understood—and like a flash massed their defense against Gridley's left.

But on that reverse signal the ball continued to move at the right. Before Barnes and his followers could comprehend, another touchdown had been scored by the visitors.

And then came the kick for goal, and it was a splendid success. The kick came just at the end of the second half. That kick won the game for Dick's sorely pressed team.

Gridley's score, won by a cleanly played game against bruisers, stood at twelve to eight!

Now, indeed, did the Gridley boosters turn themselves loose, the band leading.

Barnes and his ruffians skulked back to dressing quarters, there to abuse the referee, the "Gridley kickers" and everyone and everything else but themselves.

It wasn't long before some of the Fordham subs slipped out to find their cronies and sympathizers in the crowd that was slowly dissolving.

Then the word was passed around:

"Wait and be with us. Barnes is going to stop the Gridleys on the way to the station. Barnes is going to make Prescott fight for some things he said on the field! Of course, if you fellows get generally peevish, and the whole Gridley team gets cleaned out, there won't be many tears shed."

So scores of the sort of rabble in whom such an appeal finds ready response hung about, eager to see what would turn up.

XVII. THE LONG GRAY COLUMN

One small urchin there was, so small that he escaped notice as he hung about hearing the word passed.

But that urchin was a Gridley boy who had raised the money to come and see this game. The boy possessed the Gridley spirit. As fast as his legs would carry him he raced to dressing quarters, and there told what he had heard.

"Thank you, kid!" said Dick. "You're a good Gridley boy," and then he continued:

"So that's the game, is it They're going to mob us, are they I guess they can do it—but, fellows, keep in mind to pass some of the blows back! When we go down in the dirt be sure that some of the Fordham fellows have something to remember us by for many a day! I'm glad Hazelton has already been sent forward in an ambulance."

As Dick finished dressing and waited for the others, he saw one of the subs dropping a spiked shoe into an outer jacket pocket.

"What's that for?" Dick demanded sternly. "A weapon?"

"Yes," sheepishly admitted the other.

"Put it in your bag, then, and let it go on the baggage wagon. Fellows, we'll fight with nothing but fists, and only then if we're attacked."

"But those scoundrels will probably use brickbats," argued the fellow who had tried to drop the spiked shoe into his overcoat pocket.

"No matter," rang Dick's voice, low but commanding. "If we have to, we'll fight for our lives as we fought for the game—on the square! Good citizens don't carry concealed weapons until called upon by the authorities to do it."

"Bully for you, Prescott!" rang the voice of the coach.

"You here, Mr. Morton?" cried Dick, wheeling and seeking the submaster. "Mr. Morton, you're not a boy, and you don't want to be mixed up in such affairs. Why don't you start——"

"My place, Captain Prescott, is with the team I'm coaching," replied the submaster. "And I think the signs are that we're going to need all the pairs of fists that we have, and, more, too."

The baggage wagon came to the door. Dick, Dave and Tom coolly loaded the baggage on. The wagon started off at good speed.

Then the two stages drove up to the door.

"Pile in, boys!" called one of the drivers.

Neither of the stage drivers was in the secret of what was likely to happen down the road.

The start was made, the horses moving barely faster than a walk.

By this time the athletic field was practically deserted. There was no sign of the presence of the Fordham High School team, nor of the bad element that Barnes had enlisted.

It was not until the stages had proceeded nearly four blocks that Dave, sitting beside Dick on the driver's seat of the first stage, caught sight of some bobbing heads further up the road.

"There they are," whispered Dave. "Lying in wait at the next corner. They'll jump out when we get there."

"Let them!" muttered Dick. "They'll have to start it—but after they do——!"

The stages had almost reached the next corner. Grinning, or scowling, according to individual moods, the roughs streamed out into the, street.

Gridley boys steeled themselves for a conflict, hopeless in odds of five to one!

At this point a clear voice sounded in the distance.

"A Company, left wheel, march!"

Around another corner near by came a company of boys from the Fordham Military Institute. It was followed by a second company, a third and a fourth.

Then, by a further series of commands, one company was sent, on the double quick, to march ahead of the first stage, while another company fell in behind the second stage, while the other companies formed and marched on either side of the stages.

While these hasty maneuvers were being carried out the fine-looking young cadet major of the battalion lifted his fatigue cap to Dick Prescott.

"Captain," called the boyish major, "you gave us such a fine exhibition of gentlemanly football that we beg leave to show our appreciation by marching as your escort of honor to the station."

The rough crowd in the street had fallen back to the sidewalks, a savage mutter going up at the same time.

The Military School boys were without arms, save those Nature had given them, but they, marched in solid ranks and stood for two hundred pairs of fists!

So Barnes's last hope of vengeance vanished. Even his own rough followers turned to eye him in disgust.

Before they left the grounds some of the Military School boys had heard a whisper or two of what Barnes planned.

The soldier is drilled to fair play, and to detestation of cowardice. These young military students passed the word quickly. They left the grounds at once, but formed near by, on a side street near where they learned that Barnes and his rough mob lay in ambush.

"I declare, that's the neatest, most military thing I ever saw done!" laughed Dave Darrin.

"And done by the boys you made fun of as sham West Pointers!" laughed Dick quizzically.

"But I didn't mean it," protested Dave, growing very red. "These are splendid fellows. Evidently they think that they, too, are entitled to say a word or two about the good name of Fordham."

"You didn't like the first look of these fellows, Dave, because they had started to cheer for Fordham High School. But did you notice that they cheered no more for Fordham after Reade answered Phin Drayne so forcibly."

"It's a fact that these men didn't boost any more for Fordham," assented Dave. "By the way, I have one clear notion in my head!"

"What is it?"

"That Phin Drayne isn't marching in these close gray ranks about us."

Phin Drayne wasn't. At this moment Phin was back at the military institute, his face twitching horribly as he packed his clothing in the trunk in which it had come.

For, almost instantly after Reade had called out, some of the military students around Drayne had demanded of him whether there was a shadow of truth in what Reade had said.

Phin Drayne's "brass" had deserted him. He knew, anyway, that these comrades could dig up his past record at Gridley very quickly.

Drayne knew that his days at Fordham were over.

"It was all my confounded tongue, too," muttered Phin dejectedly. "If I had kept my tongue behind my teeth I don't believe any of the Gridley fellows would have noticed me, or said anything. Oh, dear! I wonder where I can go next!"

In the meantime the Gridley High School team and substitutes, escorted with so much pomp, attracted a great deal of notice in the streets of Fordham.

People turned out to cheer them, and to wave handkerchiefs and ribbons. For Fordham wasn't all bad or rough; not even the High School. The roughest element in the school had captured football—that was all. Some of these boys belonged to the wealthier families, and had been brought up to believe they could do as they pleased. This was the High School in which Phin Drayne naturally belonged.

Down at the railway station the Gridley crowd and the Gridley Band awaited the coming of the team. The fine sight made by the gray military escort brought a hurricane of cheers from the Gridleyites.

Just at the nick of time the leader of the band bethought himself, and signaled his musicians. As the stages drew up the band played, and the Fordham Military Institute's battalion moved into line of battalion front.

Dick feelingly thanked young Major Ransom.

"Oh, that's all right, Prescott," laughed young Ransom. "If we hadn't shown up at all you fellows would have given a good account of yourselves. But we had to do it. Fordham is our headquarters, too, and the honor of the town, while we live and study here, means something to all of us. Don't gauge even the Fordham High School by what happened to-day—or came near happening. There are some mighty fine fellows and a lot of noble girls who attend Fordham High School. But Barnes—he's the curse of the school population of the town."

Three or four days later Dick asked Darrin:

"Did you hear the outcome of the Fordham affair?"

"No," Dave admitted.

"I just heard it all up at 'The Blade' office. The fact that the Military School cadets escorted us in such formal manner to the railway station attracted a lot of attention in Fordham. The principal of the High School there started a quiet investigation of his own. Barnes and two other fellows on the Fordham eleven have been suspended from school until the School Board can take up their cases and decide whether they ought to be expelled. The Fordham principal has also made it plain that next year's team will have to be scanned by him, and that he'll keep out of the eleven any fellows who don't come up to the tests. There's a jolly big row on in Fordham, and Barnes isn't having any sympathy wasted on him you can just bet."

"It serves him and that whole football crew just right," blazed Darrin.

Hazelton's injury kept him out of school only a fortnight. The supposed break in his leg turned out to be only a sprain.

While school teams like that commanded by Barnes are rare, they are found, now and then. Yet the fate of rowdy athletes in the school world is usually swift and satisfying. Other schools refuse to compete with schools that are known to put out "rough-house men."

Dick & Co. had laid by their togs. They had said farewell to school athletics.

In the winter's basket ball they did not intend to take part. For the baseball nine, that would begin practice soon after the new year, there was plenty of fine material in the lower classes.

"I feel almost as if I had been to a funeral," snorted Darrin, when he came away from the gym. after having turned in all his togs and paraphernalia.

"It's time to give the younger fellows a show," sighed Dick.

"You talk as though we were old men," gibed Dave.

"In the High School we are," laughed Dick. "We're seniors. In a few short months more we shall be graduates, unless——"

There he stopped, but Darrin didn't need to look at his chum. Both knew what that pause meant.

XVIII. THE WOULD-BE CANDIDATES

The big stir came earlier than it had been expected.

Every boy who has followed such matters in his own interest will appreciate what the "big stir" means.

Congressman Spokes, representing the district in which Gridley lay, had a vacant cadetship at West Point within his gift, and also a cadetship at Annapolis.

"On December 17, at nine A.M., at the town hall in Wilburville, I will meet all young men who believe themselves to possess the other proper qualifications for a cadetship at either West Point or Annapolis."

So ran the Congressman's announcement in the daily press of the district.

Every young man had to be of proper age, height, weight and general good bodily condition. He must, of course, be a citizen of the United States.

Every young man was advised to save himself some possible trouble and disappointment by going, first of all, to his family physician for a thorough examination. If serious bodily defects were found, that would save the young man from the trouble of going further in the matter.

But at the Wilburville town hall there was to be another physical examination, which every young man must pass before he would be admitted to the mental examinations, which were to last into the evening.

Dick Prescott read this announcement and thrilled over it.

For two years or more he had been awaiting this very opportunity.

Every Congressman once in four years has one of these cadetships to give to some young man.

Sometimes the Congressman would give the chance to a boy of high social connections, or else to the son of an influential politician. A cadetship was a prize with which the Congress man too often paid his debts.

Good old General Daniel E. Sickles was the first Congressman to formulate the plan of giving the cadetship to the brightest boy in district, the young man proving his fitness by defeating all other aspirants in a competitive examination.

Since that time the custom had grown up of doing this regularly. It is true, at any rate of most of the states of the Union. In some western and some southern states the cadetship is still given as a matter of favor.

The young man who receives the appointment goes to the United States Military Academy at West Point. He is now a "candidate" only. At West Point he is subjected to another searching series of physical and mental examinations. If he comes out of them successfully he is admitted to the cadet corps, and becomes a full-fledged cadet.

The candidate must report at West Point on the first of March. If he succeeds in entering the corps, and keeps in it, four years and three months later the young man is graduated from the Military Academy. The President now commissions him as a second lieutenant in the Regular Army. Thus started on his career, the young man may, in later days, become a general.

While the cadet is at West Point he is paid a salary that is just about sufficient for his needs and leaves enough over to enable him to buy his first set of uniforms and other equipment as an army officer.

West Point is no place for idlers, nor for boys who dislike discipline. It is a severe training that the cadet receives, and the education furnished him by the United States is a magnificent and costly one. It costs Uncle Sam more than twenty thousand dollars for each cadet he educates and graduates from the United States Military Academy.

The same general statement is true regarding the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. In the latter institution, however, the cadet learns how to become an officer in the United States Navy.

Now, here were both grand opportunities, offered together.

While Dick Prescott had been waiting, hoping and praying for the cadetship at West Point; Dave Darrin had been equally wistful for the chance to go to Annapolis.

"Our chances have come, old chum!" cried Dick, looking into the glowing face of Darrin.

"Yes; and of course an Army or Navy officer should be a brave man. But now the chance has come, I find myself an utter coward," confessed Dave.

"How so?"

"I'm in a blue funk for fear some other fellow will get it away from me," confessed Darrin honestly. "And if I fail in this great ambition of my life, I'm wondering if I'll have the nerve to go on living afterwards."

"Brace up!" laughed Dick protestingly.

"Now, honestly, old fellow, aren't you just badly scared!" Dave demanded.

"Whisper, Dave! I am," Dick admitted.

"Well, there is nothing like having some one that you can confess everything to, is there?" muttered Darrin.

"I guess it has done us both good to own up," laughed Dick. "But see here!"

"Well?"

"I simply won't allow myself to be scared."

"Then you're as keen for West Point as I am for Annapolis," retorted Darrin suspiciously.

"Dave, old fellow, you know what the Gridley spirit demands? You know how we and the rest of the fellows managed to win eternally in athletics? Just because we made up our minds that defeat was impossible."

"That's fine," laughed Dave. "But we'll probably have to buck up against more fellows than we do on an athletic field. And probably dozens of them go in with the same determination."

"I don't care," declared Prescott. "I want that West Point cadetship. I've wanted it for years, and now the chance has come. I'm going to have it!"

Dave Darrin gradually succeeded in working himself into the same frame of mind. Yet there were many moments when he was tortured by doubts as to whether the "Gridley spirit" would serve in bucking a long line of young fellows all equally anxious to get to Annapolis.

The first step taken by Dick and Dave was to get excused from the High School for the time.

Both boys had lists of the studies and standards required for entrance to the Military Academy or the Naval Academy. Dick and Dave, each in his own room at home, spent the next few days in "boning" as neither had ever "boned" before.

"But we must get three hours in the open air each day, Dave," Dick insisted. "We mustn't go up for the trial with our nerves shattered by moping all the time indoors."

Only Dick & Co., and a very few friends, knew what Dick and Dave were planning. It was kept a secret.

The date of the High School senior ball was set for December 17.

"Can you be back in time to go to the ball?" Laura Bentley asked Prescott.

"I'm afraid not, Laura. Besides, when I get back from Wilburville, I'm afraid I'll feel pretty well tired out."

"You're not afraid of failing?" asked Laura anxiously.

"I'm not going to allow myself to fail. Yet, even if I win, I shall be tired out after the ordeal. Wish the ball could come a couple of days alter the ordeal. I wanted to go to it and to dance with you, Laura."

"I'm sorry you can't go," sighed the girl.

Darrin, too, had given up all thoughts of attending the senior ball, and this was the first time that either lad had "skipped" the class ball.

"It seems too bad to be away," grumbled Dave. "But I know how I'll feel on that night. If I carry off the honors for Annapolis, no mere ball could hold me! I'll need air and space. I'll be lucky if I don't get arrested on that night for building bonfires in the streets."

Dave next sighed dismally and continued:

"If I don't carry off the Annapolis prize, I'll feel so disappointed that I won't look anybody in the face! Dick, Dick! It's fearful, this waiting—and wanting!"

"It won't seem like the class ball a bit without you two boys," declared Belle Meade, pouting, the next afternoon.

"But if we get through," muttered Dave, "think of the gay, splendid times to which we can invite you at Annapolis and West Point."

"Indianapolis and Blue Point are far away," murmured Belle, purposely misnaming both famous places.

"Ann-apolis!" flared Dave

"West Point!" protested Dick hotly.

"Don't mind Belle," begged Laura quietly. "She's the worst tease I know."

"If I get the appointment to Annapolis," continued Darrin, "you'll be asking me, next, if I expect to be promoted, after a while, to he helmsman, or fireman, on some cruiser."

"Well, would you expect to be!" asked Belle, with an appearance of great innocence.

"Don't, Belle," pleaded Laura. "The boy are too much in earnest. It isn't fair to tease them, now. Wait until they've been at West Point and Annapolis a couple of years. Then ask them."

"What would be the use then?" asked Belle dryly. "By that time our young cadets will have met so many girls that they would have to think back quite a while before they could remember our names."

Laura's pretty color lessened for an instant.

"Don't you believe it," broke in Dick promptly. "Just as soon as I have a right ask for cards for a West Point hop I'm going to ask for cards for Miss Bentley and Miss Deane, and their chaperon."

"The same here, for Annapolis," promised Dave solemnly. "So you see, girls, you'll have to be prepared to do some traveling in the near future.

"But you won't get to Annapolis, anyway, until June," replied Belle, a bit more gently. "So you won't have any Annapolis hops until next fall, will you?"

"Probably not," Dave admitted.

"But you won't go to Annapolis, anyway," suggested Laura, turning to Prescott. "There may be some West Point hops between then and June."

"I feel pretty sure there will be," nodded Dick cheerily. "And you girls may be sure of my keeping my promise."

"And I'll keep mine for the very first hop that comes off at Annapolis after I get there," Darrin assured them.

The laugh was on both young men, though neither they nor their fair young companions knew it.

The poor "plebe," as the first year's man at either West Point or Annapolis is known, would be in for a terrible experience at the hands of his comrades if, during his "plebe" year, he had the "cheek" to seek to attend a cadet hop. He must wait until he has entered his second year before he has that privilege.

This is a wise regulation. In his first year the poor "plebe" has so bewilderingly much to learn that he simply couldn't spare any time for the cultivation of the graces of the ballroom. In his first year, he has dancing lessons, but that is all that comes his way.

Greg Holmes came to Prescott with a wistful, rather sad face.

"How are you coming on, Dick?" Greg asked.

"Meaning what?"

"Are you going to be well prepared for the examinations?"

"As far as being able to pass with a decent percentage," Dick answered, "I am not all uneasy. All that worries me is the fear that some other fellow may have a slightly better percentage. That would ditch me, you know."

"Oh, you'll win out," predicted Greg loyally. "And I just wish I had a chance like yours!"

"Why don't you go in and try for it, then?" urged Dick generously.

"No use," uttered Greg, shaking his head. "You can beat me on the scholastic examination, and I know it, Dick. The best I could hope for would be an appointment as your alternate. And your alternate to West Point isn't going to stand any show for a cadetship, Dick Prescott!"

Besides the candidate each Congressman may appoint one or more "alternates." These alternates also report at West Point. If the "principal" fails there, the alternate is given a chance to make good for the cadetship.

But Greg Holmes, though he was wildly anxious to go to West Point, felt certain that it would be useless to go there as Dick Prescott's alternate.

"I hate to see you not try at all, Greg," declared Dick. "Why don't you try? If you beat me out there won't be any hard feelings."

"I couldn't beat you out, and I don't want to, either," responded Greg. "But wait! I may have something to tell you later on."

Dan Dalzell had much the same kind of a talk with Dave Darrin. Dan felt the call to the sailor's life, but hadn't any notion that he could slip in ahead of Darrin.

"Even if I could, Dave, I wouldn't try it," declared Dan earnestly. "I want badly enough to go to Annapolis, and I admit it. But I believe you're just about crazy to get there."

"I am," Dave admitted honestly. "But the prize goes to the best fellow, Dan. Jump in, old fellow, and have your try at it."

Dalzell, however, shook his head and remained silent on the subject after that.

To both Dick and Dave it seemed as though the next few days simply refused to budge along on the calendar. Certainly neither of them had ever known time to pass so slowly before.

"I hope I'll be able to keep my nerve up until the seventeenth," groaned Darrin.

"Surely, you will," grinned Dick. "You've got to!"

"I've been studying until all the words on a page seem to run together, and I don't know one word from another," complained Dave.

"Then drop study—if you dare to!"

"I'm thinking of it," proposed Darrin seriously. "Actually, I've been boning so that the whole thing gets on my nerves, and stays there like a cargo of lead."

"Let's pledge ourselves, then, not to study on the fifteenth or the sixteenth," urged Dick.

"I'll go you, right off, on that," cried Darrin eagerly.

"And we'll spend those two days in the open air, roaming around, and trying to enjoy ourselves," added Prescott.

"Enjoy ourselves—with all the load of suspense hanging over our heads?" gasped Darrin.

"Well, we'll try it anyway."

To most people in and around Gridley the world, in these few days, seemed to bob along very much as usual. Dick and Dave, however, knew better.

At last came the evening of the sixteenth! Both anxious boys turned in early, though neither expected to sleep much. Both, however, were soon in the land of Nod.

But Dick awoke at half-past four on the morning of the fateful seventeenth. By five o'clock he knew that he wasn't going to sleep any more. So he got up and dressed.

Dave Darrin was in his bath, that same morning, before four o'clock. Then he, too, dressed, and wondered whether every other fellow who was going into the contest to-day felt as restless.

The mothers of both boys were astir almost as early. Mothers can't take these examinations, but mothers know what a son's suspense means.

Dick and Dave met at the station a full twenty minutes before train time.

XIX. TOM READE BOSSES THE JOB

"Ugh!" shivered Dave, as the chums met on the platform. "It's cold out here!"

"Come inside, then, and get warm. But you're a great athlete, to mind an ordinary December morning," laughed Dick Prescott.

Together they stepped into the waiting room.

"What time does our train go?" asked Dave, though he had known the time of this train for the last week.

"Seven-forty," replied Dick.

"And it's seven-twenty, now. Whew, what a await!"

"I could have stayed home a little longer," nodded Dick. "Only I told father and mother that I'd feel more like being started if I got down here this far on the way."

"Sure thing," nodded Dave sympathetically. "My Dad had to hold on to me to stop my leaving the house an hour earlier than I did."

Both boys laughed, though not very heartily. Each was under a terrific strain—just from wondering!

"If I get through, and win out to-day," muttered Dick, "I know I shan't feel half as anxious when it comes time to take the graduating exams."

"No," agreed Dave. "Then you'll know you have a chance; but to-day you can't be sure of that much."

Five minutes before train time the chums were astonished at seeing another of the chums walk into the station. It was Tom Reade, looking as jovial and contented as a youngster could possibly look.

"Hullo, Tom!" came from Dick.

"Howdy, Tom, old man!" was Dave's greeting.

"Hullo, fellows!" from Reade.

"Where are you bound?" inquired Dick.

"Wilburville?"

"What?"

"Fact!" Reade assured them.

"Going to the exams.?" Dave demanded quickly.

"Yep."

"Why, you never said a word about thinking of West Point," exploded Prescott.

"You were making fun of Annapolis only the other day!" asserted Dave, just as though making fun of Annapolis were one of the capital crimes.

"Hang West Point!" exploded Tom Reade.

"Oh! Then it's Annapolis you're after," grunted Darrin.

"Sink Annapolis!" exclaimed Reade.

"Then what on earth are you after?" demanded Dick.

"Have you any fool idea in your head, Tom, that you can take an exam and stand a chance of getting Congressman Spokes's job away from him?" Dave asked.

Tom threw himself into one of the seats, crossed his feet, thrust his hands down in his ulster pockets, and surveyed the pair before he answered:

"I'll tell you what ails you two. You have a notion that the sun rises at West Point and sets at Annapolis. Now, I know a heap better, and I haven't an eye on either place. Can you fellows guess why I've taken the day off from school and why I'm going to Wilburville?"

"We surely can't," declared Dave.

"Well, then, I'll tell you," promised Tom amiably. "I knew you two good old chaps would be going to pieces with blue funk to-day. I knew you'd be chattering inside, and turning all sorts of colors outside. You'd try to cheer each other, but each of you is too badly scared to be of any use to the other. So I've come along to take up your minds, jolly you and stiffen your backbones alternately. That's my whole job for to-day."

Looking in some amazement at Reade, the other two chums realized that good old Tom was telling the truth.

"Of course, I'll admit," continued Reade, "that, if I were going on the grill to-day, I'd be worse than either of you. But I'm not. I wouldn't live in West Point, and I wouldn't be caught dead at Annapolis, so I shan't have any scares or any nervous streak to-day. I'll look after you both, the best I can, and do what little lies in my power to keep your minds off your troubles."

"Well, who'd ever have thought of a thing like that but Tom Reade?" gasped Dick gratefully.

"It's mighty good of you, old chum," declared Darrin fervently.

"Now, then,"`resumed Reade, uncrossing his legs, "as I'm on the job to look after you, allow me to remind you that that is your train whistling at this moment."

Three very jolly boys, therefore, piled out of the station building and boarded the train.

Tom spoke to the conductor a moment before following the others to seats.

"You see," spoke Reade, "I'm even going to the trouble to make sure that this is the right train, and not a belated express."

"I never though of that," muttered Darrin, turning a bit pale.

"Great Scott!" gasped Dick. "I can feel the cold sweat oozing out at the bare thought. Suppose we had been harebrained enough to get on the wrong train, and be carried so far past that we couldn't get back to Wilburville by nine o'clock!"

"Drop all worry. Don't think of anything alarming, or even disconcerting," chuckled Tom. "I've taken charge of the whole job, and I guarantee everything. One of the little things I guarantee is that you'll both win out to-day."

"In algebra," muttered Darrin, "I hope they won't go too deeply into quadratic equations——"

"Cut it!" ordered Reade severely. "Likewise forget it! Say, I heard a rattling good story last night. It carries a Dutchman, a poodle, a dude and an old maid. Let me see if I can remember just how it runs."

With that Reade got started. He soon had his two friends started as well. They laughed until the brakeman at last thrust his head in and called:

"Next station, Wilburville!"

"Stop and get out, young man!" called Tom. "Do you think we don't know our way?"

Then into another story plunged Tom Reade. He spun it out, purposely, until the train slowed up at Wilburville.

"'Bus right up to the town hall!" cried a driver, sizing the trio up shrewdly.

"Thank you; that's our auto over there," nodded Tom, pointing to a lunch wagon. Reade started the chums at a brisk walk. Of the first native they met they inquired the way.

Tom was still talking at forty horse-power when they came to the town hall.

"That building holds our fate!" muttered Dave, as they drew near.

"Stop that!" ordered Tom. "Anyone would think that Annapolis was all the candy in the land. What are you worrying about, anyway? Haven't I taken all the responsibility for this thing upon myself? Haven't I promised you both that you shall find your little toy appointments in your Christmas stockings? Do you think I'm lying?"

"But the exams!" groaned Dave.

"Well, they're competitive," quoted Tom cheerily.

"That's just what ails 'em!" argued Dave.

"You make me think of my cousin, Jack Reade, of the militia," taunted Tom. "He's a captain. Now, Jack wanted to be appointed assistant inspector general of rifle practice. He was ordered up for his exam. Poor fellow spent three weeks, days and nights, boning for that exam. The family had the doctor in twice, for they were afraid Jack was studying himself crazy. Then the day came for the exam. Jack went into the ordeal shivering. The examiner asked Jack to write down his full name, the date of his birth, and the date of his entry into the militia. Jack answered all three questions straight, and got a hundred per cent. for his marking. Yet you fellows talk about exams as though they were really hard!"

Still laughing the three passed inside.

Dick Prescott had firmly resolved to do no more talking about the ordeal. But Darrin hadn't. So, after the boys had entered the building, and had climbed to the next floor, where the hall was, and had taken a look inside, Dave drew back into the corridor.

"Great guns, did you look inside?" he demanded. "There are a million boys in there already."

"Cheer up," soothed Tom. "Most of 'em want to go to West Point."

Tom fairly forced his chums inside. The boys already there, some three-score, at least, turned to regard the newcomers curiously.

"The rest of you may as well go home," announced Tom laughingly. "My friends have a first mortgage on the jobs you're after."

Presently, more fellows came in. Then some more, and still more.

"Let's go down and stand by the door, where we can get more air," urged Darrin.

"Yes," agreed Tom. "And we'll throw out any of the rest that may have a nerve to try to step in here."

Hardly had they taken their stand by the door when the three chums received a shock.

For the next arrivals were Phin Drayne, and his father, Heathcote Drayne.

Phin was now in attendance at the Wilburville Academy, and his father had come down, the evening before, to urge his son to try for West Point.

Tom looked the newcomer over with especial disfavor. Young Drayne, like many another "peculiar" fellow, was an unusually good student. At any time Drayne would have a very good chance of coming out even with, or just ahead of, either Dick or Dave.

The Draynes did not favor our three chums with any greeting, but walked on down into the hall.

"Excuse me a minute," murmured Tom. "I want to find out how the land lies."

Tom thereupon walked boldly over to the Draynes.

"May I speak with you just a moment, Mr. Drayne?" asked Tom.

"Go ahead," replied Mr. Heathcote Drayne, not over-graciously.

"It is important, sir, that I speak with you aside," Tom went on.

Heathcote Drayne scowled, then stepped to one side, turning and glancing down at Reade.

"Well, young man, what is it?"

"I thought it barely possible," continued Tom coolly, "that I might be able to offer you a hint or two worth while."

"Worth whose while?" demanded Heathcote Drayne, suspiciously.

"Yours. Has your son come here to compete for either the West Point or Annapolis cadetship?"

"What if he has?"

"Then has Phin his certificates of good character with him?" demanded Tom, his blue eyes steely and cold as he looked straight and significantly at the elder Drayne.

"Confound your impudence, Reade! What do you mean?"

"Just this," continued Tom readily. "Only boys of good character are eligible for West Point or Annapolis. Now, the fact is, your son was expelled from Gridley High School for a dishonorable action. Are you content to have your son try for a cadetship, with that record hanging over his head and enveloping his chances?"

"Who'll know anything about that record if you don't blab?" demanded Mr. Drayne.

"Why, your son would have to state where he had attended school, and furnish certificates of good character from his teachers," ran on Reade. "Now, honestly, do you think that Dr. Thornton, of Gridley High School, would furnish a certificate on which Congressman Spokes could appoint your boy to West Point or Annapolis? Because, if you think so," wound up Reade, "go ahead and put Phin in the running, to be sure."

With that Tom marched off back to his chums.

"What have you been up to?" asked Dick curiously.

"I'm manager for you two half-witted fellows, ain't I?" queried Reade.

"What have you been saying to Mr. Drayne?" asked Dave.

"Just watch father and son, and see how they seem to be enjoying their talk," chuckled Tom. "There, what do you see now? I thought it would end like that."

This was the first time it had occurred to the elder Drayne that his son's character would be inquired into. In fact, Mr. Drayne had had half an idea that the United States Military Academy was a place that made a specialty of reforming wild boys and making useful citizens of them.

XX. WHEN THE GREAT NEWS WAS GIVEN OUT

At just nine o'clock Congressman Spokes came on to the platform followed by two other men.

One of these latter was a town official, who, in a very few words, introduced the Member of Congress.

Congressman Spokes now addressed the young men upon the vocations they were seeking to enter. He explained that neither the Military nor the Naval Academy offered an inducement to boys fond only of their ease and good times.

"At either school," warned the Congressman "you will find ahead of you years of the hardest work and the strictest discipline. No boy whose character is not good can hope to enter these schools of the nation. It is not worth any boy's while to enter unless he stands ready to sacrifice everything, his own ideas and prejudices included, to the service of his country and his flag."

Congressman Spokes continued in this line for some time. Then he called for the boys who wished to try for West Point to gather at the right side of the hall; those for Annapolis at the left side.

"This is the first time you and I haven't been on the same side in everything, old fellow," Dick whispered smilingly, as he and Dave Darrin parted.

What a hurried count the interested youngsters made! But Tom Reade, who didn't belong to either crowd, probably made the most accurate count. He discovered that sixty-two of the boys had voted for West Point. Forty-one favored Annapolis. A few young men present, like Tom, didn't care to go to either government school.

"When I am ready to give the word," continued Congressman Spokes, "the young men who want to go to West Point will file out of the door at this end of the hall. In the rooms across the corridor they will find the physicians who are making the physical examinations for West Point.

"The Annapolis aspirants will file downstairs and enter through the first door at the left, where other physicians will make the physical examinations for Annapolis.

"The examinations by the physicians here will not be conclusive for the successful candidates. The final physical examinations, like the final scholastic examinations, will be made at West Point and Annapolis.

"Now, each young gentleman who passes the physical examination will receive a signed card with his name on it. Such successful young men are then excused until one o'clock. At one o'clock sharp the young men who have certificates from the medical examiners may report for their scholastic examinations. Do not come here, however, for the scholastic examinations. West Point aspirants will report at the High School, and those for Annapolis at the Central Grammar School.

"Now, at eight o'clock this evening you return here. At that hour, or as soon there after as possible, announcement will be made, from this platform, of the names of the successful young men and their alternates. Now the young men for West Point forward, the Annapolis hopefuls downstairs!"

Inside of two minutes the town hall was bare, save for the presence of Tom Reade, who, with his hands in his pockets, walked about, whistling.

In forty-five minutes Dick, flushed an breathless, broke in upon Tom, as the latter sat waiting patiently for his friends.

"I've passed the doctors all right," announced Dick, producing his card.

"That's all right, then," nodded Tom. "And the rest will be easier."

Twenty minutes later Dave Darrin join them.

"I've passed—that part of the trial," he proclaimed.

"Then, until twelve o'clock, there's nothing to do but go out and kill time," declared Reade.

"Twelve o'clock" repeated Dick. "You mean one o'clock."

"I mean twelve," retorted Tom, with emphasis. "At twelve you eat; you don't gorge, but you chew and swallow something nourishing. Then you'll be in fit shape for the little game of the afternoon."

Both of the chums had reason to realize the weight of their debt to jovial, helpful Reade; who was banishing care and keeping their minds off their suspense. In fact time passed quickly until it was time for Dick and Dave once more to part, to seek their separate examinations.

Just forty of the boys who wanted to go to West Point had passed the doctors as being presumably fit in body and general health. Twenty-seven of the Annapolis aspirants had passed the doctors. Already three dozen disappointed young Americans were on their way home, their dream over.

Tom Reade chose to walk over to the local High School with Dick. Dave found his way alone to his place of examination.

Dick Prescott and the thirty-nine other aspirants were assembled in one of the class rooms at the High School. On each desk was a supply of stationery. After the young men had been seated the examination papers in English were passed around. This examination Dick thought absurdly easy. He finished his paper early, and read it through three times while waiting for the papers to be collected.

History was a bit harder, but Dick was not especially disturbed by it. Not quite so with geography. Dick had had no instruction in this branch since his grammar school days, and, though he had brushed up much of late on this subject, he found himself compelled to go slowly and thoughtfully. Arithmetic was not so hard; algebra a bit more puzzling.

It was after six o'clock when the examinations were finished, and all papers in. As fast as each examination was finished, however, the papers had been hurried off to the examiners and marked.

Faithful Tom was waiting as Dick came out in the throng.

"Congratulations, old fellow!" cried Reade, holding out his hand.

"You've passed," announced Tom gravely.

"Why, the examiners haven't fin——"

"They don't have to," snorted Tom. "I don't have to wait for the opinions of mere examiners. You've passed, and won out, I tell you. Now let's go look for Dave."

It had been agreed that the three should meet, for supper, at the same restaurant where they had lunched. Darrin was not there yet. It was nearly seven o'clock when Dave came in, looking fagged and worried.

But Tom was up on his feet in an instant, darting toward Darrin.

"Didn't I tell you, old fellow?" demanded. Reade. "And my congratulations!"

"If you hadn't been such a good fellow all day I might be cross," sighed Dave. "Whee! But those examiners certainly did turn my head inside out. Don't you see a few corners of the brain still sloping over outside?"

"Cheer up," quoth Tom grimly. "Nothing doing. You haven't brains enough to overflow. In fact, you've so few brains that I'm going to do the ordering for your supper."

"Everything I can do, now, is over with, anyway," muttered Prescott. "So I'm going to forget my troubles and enjoy this meal."

Dave tried to, also, but he was more worried, and could not wholly banish his gloom.

Tom succeeded in making the meal drag along until about ten minutes of eight. Then he led his friends from the restaurant and down the street to the town hall.

Here, though most of the young men were already on hand, there was nothing of boisterousness. Some were quiet; others were glum. All showed how much the result of the examinations meant to them.

But the time dragged fearfully. It was twenty minutes of nine when Congressman Spokes appeared on the platform and rapped for order. He did not have to rap twice. In the stillness that followed the Congressman's voice sounded thunderous.

"Young gentlemen, I now have the results from all the examiners, and the averages have been made up. I am now able to announce my appointments to West Point and Annapolis."

Mr. Spokes paused an instant.

"For West Point," he announced, "My candidate will be——Richard Prescott, of Gridley. The alternate will be——"

But Dick Prescott didn't catch a syllable of the alternate's name, for his ears were buzzing. But now, for the first time, Tom Reade was most unsympathetically silent.

"For Annapolis, my candidate will be——David Darrin, of Gridley. The alternate——"

Neither did Darrin hear the name of his alternate. Dave's head was reeling. He was sure it was a dream.

"Pinch me, Tom," he begged, in a hoarse whisper, and Reade complied—heartily.

"The young men who have won the appointments as candidates and alternates will please come to see me at once, in the anteroom," continued Congressman Spokes, who, however, lingered to address a few words of tactful sympathy to the eager young Americans who had tried and lost.

"Come along, now, and let's get this over with as quickly as possible," grumbled Torn Reade. "This Congressman bores me."

"Bores you?" repeated Prescott, in a shocked voice. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I don't like his nerve," asserted Reade. "Here he is, giving out as if it were fresh, news that I announced two hours ago."

Congressman Spokes was waiting in the anteroom to shake hands with the winners. He congratulated the candidates most heartily, and cautioned the alternates that they also must be alert, as one or both of them might yet have a chance to pass on over the heads of the principal candidates.

Mr. Spokes then asked from each of the young men the name of his school principal, the address of his clergyman and of one business man. These were references to whom Mr. Spokes would write at once in order to inform himself that the lucky ones were young men of excellent character.

Then the Congressman wished the young men all the luck in the world, and bade them good evening, after informing them that they would hear, presently, from the Secretary of War with full instructions for West Point, and from the Secretary of the Navy for Annapolis.

"Fancy Phin Drayne passing in his references for the character ordeal!" chuckled Tom Reade, as the three chums walked down the street.

"What time does the next train leave for Gridley?" suddenly demanded Dave.

"In twelve minutes," answered Tom, after looking at his watch.

"Let's run, then!" proposed Dave.

"We can mope, and have five minutes to spare," objected Reade.

"Let's run, just the same!" urged Dick Prescott.

The three chums broke into a run that brought them swiftly to the station, red faced, laughing and happy.

"Oh, what a difference since the morning!" sang Dick blithely. "Say, just think! West Point really for mine!"

"Bosh!" grunted Darrin happily. "I'm going to Annapolis!"

Then, as by a common impulse Dick and Dave seized Tom Reade by either hand.

"Tom," uttered Dick huskily, "we owe you for a lot of the nerve and confidence that carried us through to-day!"

"Tom Reade," declared Darrin. tremulously, "you're the best and most dependable fellow on earth!"

"Shut up, both of you," growled Reade, in a tone of disgust. "You're getting as prosy as that Congressman—and that's the most insulting thing I can think of to say to either of you."

The train seemed fairly to fly home. It was keeping pace with the happy spirits of the young men, who, at last, came to realize that the great good news was actually true.

Neither Dick nor Dave could think of walking home from the station. They broke into a run. By and by they discovered that Tom Reade was, no longer with them.

"Now isn't that just like old Tom?" laughed Darrin, when he discovered that their friend was missing. "Well, anyway, I can't wait. Here's where our roads branch, Dick, old fellow. And say! Aren't we the lucky simpletons? Good night, old chum!"

Dick fairly raced into the bookstore conducted by his parents. He almost upset a customer who was leaving with a package under his arm.

"Dad!" whispered Dick, leaning briefly over the counter and laying a hand on Mr. Prescott's shoulder. "I passed and won! I'm going to West Point!"

A look of intense happiness wreathed his father's face and tears glistened in his eyes. But Dick raced on into the back room, where he found his mother.

"All the luck in the land is mine, mother!" he whispered, bending over and kissing her. "I won out! I go to West Point when the month of March comes!"

Mrs. Prescott was upon her feet, her arms around her boy. She didn't say much, but she didn't need to. After a moment Dick disengaged himself.

"Mother, Laura Bentley will be glad to know this news. She's at the ball of the senior class to-night, but I'll see if I can get her father on the 'phone, and tell him the news for her."

But presently it was Laura's own sweet voice that answered over the wire.

"You?" demanded Dick. "Why, I thought you'd be at the ball!"

"Did you think I could be happy all the evening, wondering how you were coming on with your great wish?" asked Laura quietly. "Say, oh, Dick! How did you come out?"

XXI. GRIDLEY SENIORS WHOOP IT UP

"Oh, so many, so many congratulations, Dick!" came the response to Prescott's eagerly imparted information.

"And so you missed the dance just because you could sympathize with some one else's worry?" demanded Dick. "But say! The evening is still young, as dances go. Couldn't you get dressed in a little while? Then we could both go and celebrate my good luck."

"I'm dressed," came the demure answer.

"What? Oh—well, now, that's nice of you——"

"I have been expecting this good news," laughed Laura. "And so I've been dressed all evening, on the chance."

"And you'll go to the class ball if I come around quickly?"

"It would be mean of you not to come and take me, Dick!"

"I'll have to change," declared Dick. "But that never takes a boy long. Won't I be around to your house in short order, though!"

Dick rang off and started to bound upstairs, but a new ting-ling sounded on the 'phone bell.

"Here's another party been trying to get you," announced central. "Go ahead."

"Hullo, Dick," sounded a low, pleased voice. "I hope you've called up Laura."

"Just rang off, Dave."

"Then you know that the girls didn't go to the class ball to-night, but just dressed and waited on the chance of hearing from us. I'm on the jump to dress, but I'll meet you there, Dick."

Dick took only time to explain the change in his night's plans to his parents. Then he bounded off upstairs, but soon came down again, looking a bit dandyish in his best, and very happy into the bargain.

When Dick arrived at Dr. Bentley's home an automobile stood in front of the house. Dick recognized it, however, as the doctor's machine with the doctor's man at the lever.

The instant that Prescott put his finger on the bell button Laura herself opened the door. She was radiant of face and exquisite in ball costume as she threw open the door and stood framed there, the light behind her.

"Oh, I'm so glad, Dick, so glad!" came her ready greeting. "Come in. I'm all ready but the wrap, but father and mother wish to be among the first to congratulate you."

In the doctor's office stood Dr. and Mrs. Bentley. They greeted Dick cordially and expressed delight over his success.

"But this is only the first ditch taken, you know," spoke Prescott soberly, though in military phrase. "I have my chance now; that is all. I have more than four years of hard fight facing me before I am sure that the Army can be my career."

"You'll make it, Prescott, just as you've made everything you've gone after at High School," replied Dr. Bentley heartily. "But, now that we've congratulated you, we mustn't keep you an instant longer from your classmates. I had just come in with my car, and Laura told me, so I directed my man to wait. He'll take you both along the road in short order. Good night, my boy!"

Laura brought her wrap, holding it out to Dick.

"If you're to be a gallant Army officer," she teased, "you must learn to do this sort of thing gracefully."

Blushing, Dick did his best. Then the young people went out. Dick helped his companion into the car, then seated himself beside her.

"We're going to pick up Dave and Belle," Laura explained, as the car moved swiftly away. "Then we'll all go in together."

One fellow had beaten them to the class ball, and that fellow was Tom Reade. How he ever did it no one will be able to guess, but Tom flew home, got into his best, and had reached the ball before these young people appeared on the scene.

The happy young candidates-elect went with their companions to the cloak room. Then, Laura on Dick's arm, and Belle clinging to Dave, the two couples entered the ballroom. The strains of a waltz were floating out. Abruptly the music ceased in the middle of the air, for Reade, standing beside the director, had motioned him to cease playing.

"Classmates and friends!" bellowed Reade, "it is my proud opportunity to-night to be able to be the first to announce to you some wonderful good news. To-day Dick Prescott, of ours, defeated all other competitors, and has secured the appointment from this district to the United States Military Academy!"

"Wow! Whoop!" That announcement had them all going. There was one tremendous, increasing din of noise. But Tom, jumping up and down, waving both arms and scowling fiercely, finally secured silence.

"Who's doing this announcing?" he demanded. "Who's master of ceremonies, if I am not. You just wait—all of you! I'll give you the cue when to turn the noise-works loose. As I just stated, it's Dick for West Point, but or, and—it's Dave Darrin for Annapolis at the same time. Yes, Dave is going to represent this district at Annapolis!"

The musicians were on their feet by this time. All with a rush the sweet, proud strains rang out:

"My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing!"

Instantly all stood at attention, the young men all over the hail holding themselves with especial erectness. Not a voice was heard until the good old refrain was through. To the two happy chums "America" had a newer, stronger meaning. The spirited air came to them with a new meaning that had never been plain before.

Dick felt the tears in his eyes. Foolish, o course, but he couldn't help it! And choky Dave furtively wished that he dared reach for his handkerchief with all those hundreds of eyes turned on him.

As the music came to an end the High School boys filled their lungs for a mighty cheer. Quick as a flash, however, the leader of the orchestra tapped his baton, then swung it once more, and the instruments leaped on into:

"Columbia, the gem of the ocean!"

That was for the Navy, of course, and one didn't have to keep quiet, either. Words of the song, and cheers, mingled with the musicians' strains.

And then it wound up in a cheer and a mad rush of yelling that must have been heard for a mile.

An impromptu reception and hand shaking followed, but to Dick and Dave, and their partners, it had more the look of a mob.

It was a joyous and big-hearted mob, though, and in time it quieted down. After a very long interruption the dancing started again, and Dick and Dave were able to whirl away with their partners.

As the next dance after that, started there was a sudden halt by many of the couples, and soon a roar of laughter ascended. For the orchestra had chosen, as the air, "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

This air will always be associated with the United Service—the Army and Navy. It is a rollicking, jolly, spirited old tune, as it needs must be for "The Girl I Left Behind Me" is the tune that is played when the country's defenders, in war time, are marching away for the front, after just having said the last goodbye to mother, sister and sweetheart.

Just now, however, the old air had none of the tragic connected with it. It was all in the spirit of fun. Laura, blushing furiously, and Belle striving to appear wholly unconscious, but striving too hard, lent all the more merriment to the moment.

"It's that confounded old idiot, Tom Reade," muttered Dave to his partner. "I wonder how many more such tricks he knows!"

Presently came "The Army Lancers," and that brought out a right royal good cheer. Two numbers after that, came "A Life on the Ocean Wave," and more cheers.

It was after three in the morning when the gay affair broke up. But who cared for that? Class balls come but once a year.

Right after "Home, Sweet Home," which wound up the ball, the orchestra added a number, "The Star Spangled Banner."

Both Dick and Dave reached home pretty thoroughly tired out, after having seen their girl friends home. Neither boy rose much before noon the day following.

Dick and Dave remained enrolled at High School until the Christmas Holidays, then dropped out, having ended the term.

Each boy had other studies with which he wished to busy himself—studies that would have a direct bearing on the stiff entrance examinations at West Point and Annapolis. The rest of their time, until they reported at their respective National Academies, they intended to devote to these other studies to make doubly sure of their success.

Dick's notification from the Secretary of War arrived on Christmas morning.

"The grandest Christmas present. I ever had!" muttered Dick, gazing at the single sheet, the words on which were couched in stiff official language.

Dave Darrin fumed a good deal, for it was nearly a month later before he received his notification from the Secretary of the Navy. It came at last, however, and Darrin knew what postponed happiness means.

XXII. THE MESSAGE FROM THE UNKNOWN

With the Christmas holidays Phin Drayne came home, to stay so far as school was concerned.

After his unhappy experience at the Fordham Military Institute, Phin had found things almost as unpleasant at Wilburville Academy.

For some reason the boys at Wilburville hadn't taken to him. Phin had come to the conclusion that he wasn't appreciated anywhere save at home, so back he came, disgusted with the idea of carrying his education any further.

As a natural sequence, Drayne took to lounging about the streets. High School boys and girls no longer paid any heed to him, so he did not fear slight or insult.

Two nights in every week Dick and Dave went faithfully to the High School gym. to help Mr. Morton with the new evening classes in training.

One afternoon Prescott and Darrin encountered good old Dr. Thornton, the principal, who asked them how they were coming along.

"We're pretty busy," Dick admitted. "Still, it does seem rather hard to us not to be connected with the High School any more."

"Why, you are with us yet, and of us!" cried the principal. "I carry your names on the rolls, with 'excused' written against your names. If you don't believe that you're still of my High School boys, then drop in any day and take your places, for an hour, or as long as you please, at your old desks. You will find them still reserved for you."

"Now, isn't that mighty decent of old Prin.!" demanded Dave, after the two chums had thanked Dr. Thornton, and had gone on their way. "So we still belong to old Gridley High School?"

"We always shall, I reckon," declared Dick. "Gridley High School has done everything for us, and has given us our start and most of our pleasures in life."

"I'm going to drop in, one of these January days," murmured Dave.

"And so am I. But," added Dick, with a smile, "don't let us be indiscreet and be roped into going into a recitation. We'll find the class has been moving ahead while we've been boning over West Point and Annapolis requirements."

"At all events, none of them ought to be ahead of us when we've gone four years further," contended Dave. "At West Point or Annapolis we have to grind in a way that is never required of mere college men. We ought to be miles ahead of any fellow who has just finished at High School and then has put in four years only at college."

Thus the happy young egotists always talked, nowadays. To them there was really little in life that did not come through the government military academies.

Phin Drayne, lounging about purposely, with the shambling gait, often saw these happy chums, and scowled after them.

"Everything seems to come to them!" growled Phin. "What rot it is to say that this is a square world, and that everyone has the same chance! Why doesn't something good come my way?"

The oftener Phin looked in the direction of the chums, and more particularly of Dick, the blacker did Drayne's thoughts become.

"Prescott has had everything come his way ever since he entered High School," growled Phin. "And now the mucker is going off to West Point, and the government is going to stamp him 'gentleman.' A gentleman? Pooh! I'd like to show him up, as a bumptious upstart. Phin scowled fiercely for a moment, before he added:

"And, by glory, I will do something to him! I'll take the conceit out of Dick Prescott!"

At first it was only the purpose that formed in Drayne's dark mind. But, by dint of much thinking, he began to feel that he saw the way of working to Prescott's complete disgrace.

Dick, in the meantime, was still writing occasionally for "The Blade."

"I'm afraid you've slipped away from us, Dick," declared Mr. Pollock, with a wry smile. "If you go to West Point and pass the exams. there, then newspaper work is going to lose one of its bright, promising young men."

"But I always told you that my plans would undoubtedly take me away from 'The Blade' when my High School life was done with," Prescott answered.

"Yes; but why do you want the life of the uniform? That's what I fail to understand? Why don't you go into something connected with the pulsing everyday life of the country? Here you are, going away to bury yourself in a uniform. You'll work, of course; the Army is no place for loafers. But after all, you're only preparing for war, and you may be an old, white-haired officer before we have another war."

"If that war does come in your life time," returned Dick, "you'll know what we of the uniforms have been working for all along. You'll realize, then, that an Army's biggest work isn't fighting, in time of war, but preparing in time of peace. And you'll thank every one of us when the time comes."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," smiled the editor. "But it all seems so far away. Now, here is something much more practical right at hand. Take these burglaries that have been annoying the small merchants lately. The police don't seem to be able to catch the fellow. For the last three days I've taken Len Spencer off of all other work and set him to trying to run down the burglar. Now, Len isn't afraid of much, and he's one of the brightest young reporters going. Yet Len admits he's stumped. All the while the merchants are fearing that the burglar will bring about bigger losses. Dick Prescott, if you could catch that burglar, and see him sent off where he belongs, you'd be doing a vastly greater service to the community than you possibly could by helping the country prepare for a war that is thirty or forty years away."

"I wouldn't mind having a crack at the burglar scare, either," laughed Dick. "But the question is, how am I going to go about it to catch the fellow? He has baffled all the police, and even Len Spencer. What show have I for finding the rascal?"

"Just the same, Dick, I believe you would catch him, if you'd set your mind and your energies to it. Will you do it? Will you put in a week trying to run down this burglar and give 'The Blade' the first chance at the story? I'll agree, in advance, to pay you for whatever time you'll put in on it for a week, if even you are not successful in running him down."

"I'll think it over," Dick replied, with a quiet smile. "I'll talk it over with Dave."

"There's another mighty bright young fellow!" cried the editor. "Now, why can't you get Darrin to go into it with you? I'll pay Darrin for his time, too."

Dave, when the project was sprung on him, gave his hearty assent.

"It won't do any harm to have a try at it, anyway, Dick," urged Darrin. "It'll wake us up a bit, too. Not that I've any real and abiding idea that we're going to catch Mr. Burglar."

"If we're in earnest we're going to catch him," declared Prescott. "That's the old Gridley High School way, you know. What well start on we've got to put through."

Night after night, in that cold January week, Dick and Dave slipped out late at night, and prowled about through the business district of Gridley. Very often the chums ran across the police, but both were known well to the police, and were not challenged. Indeed, the police soon learned that Dick and Dave were employed by "The Blade" for the purpose of assisting in the efforts to capture the mysterious burglar or burglars.

In that week two more "breaks" happened, and each time the thief or thieves got away with valuable booty.

"You youngsters don't seem to be having any luck," remarked Editor Pollock. "But keep on the case a little longer. I know you'll land something sooner or later. Keep ahead, just as if you had to score a touchdown before the half was over."

So for two nights Dick and Dave kept out, with equally bad luck.

One night at eleven o'clock Dick answered the home telephone. He listened in amazement, then tried to find out who his informant was, but the latter rang off promptly.

"I believe that is straight," muttered Dick. "At all events, I'll look into this game for all it's worth. What if we are about to catch the thief red-handed?"

Snatching up a heavy walking stick, Dick Prescott hurriedly quitted the house.

XXIII. THE PLIGHT OF THE INNOCENT

If the information that had come over the wire from an unknown was correct there was not a moment to be lost in telephoning.

It was a masculine voice that had sounded in the 'phone and the message was to the effect that the sender of the message had just observed two men forcing the rear entrance of Kahn's drygoods store.

"And hearing that 'The Blade' is trying to catch the burglars I thought I'd just let you know," the voice had continued. "But I guess you'll have to be quick if you want a sight of the burglars. They'll probably get away in quick order."

Then had come the ring-off, just as Dick had tried to get the name of his informant.

Now Dick was sprinting toward the scene by the shortest route that he could think of.

Kahn's store was on Main Street, but the rear entrance, used for the receipt of goods opened in off an alleyway that ran parallel with Main Street.

"There can't be much time to spare," muttered Dick, looking hard for a policeman.

At this late hour of the night the streets that Dick traveled in his haste were bare of pedestrians.

"I wish I had had time to get Dave," though Prescott. "But that would have lost at least five minutes more. And Dave wasn't going to be ready to go out until he came around for me nearer midnight."

Dick was at the head of the alley, now, an moving cautiously, eyes wide open and ears on the alert.

How dark it was down in here! Dick wondered, a moment, at the keenness of vision that had enabled some neighbor to see what was going on over in this dark place.

In his pocket, at the time of receiving the message, Prescott had placed a pocket electric "search-light."

This he thought of, now, but he did not deem it wise to go flashing the light about unless he had to.

"The first point in my information is right, anyway," muttered Dick. "The rear door of Kahn's is open."

Moving in the shadow of the building, he had paused not far away from the door in question.

"There were two of the fellows, the message said," muttered Dick. "In that case, I should think one would have been left outside as a lookout. However, the lookout may be just a little way inside of the door. It won't do to use my light now. I'll see if I can slip in and get close to the lookout before the thieves know there's anyone around."

A step at a time Prescott softly reached the open door. He paused, listening intently.

"I don't hear a sound in there. I guess I'd better take a few very soft steps inside, and see if I can discover where the rogues are. That is, unless they have already bagged their booty, and have gotten away again."

Just inside of the open door, Dick halted again. He listened, but there was no sound.

"These scoundrels are surely the original mice for soft moving," muttered the boy grimly. "What part of the establishment can they be in? Hadn't I better slip out and get the police? I can't learn anything in here unless I use my light."

Yet Prescott didn't want to turn on that flare. The light was much more likely to show him up to the burglars than to enable him to find men who were not making a sound.

So Dick penetrated a little further, and a little further, listening. As he moved he was obliged to grope his way.

At last, however, he found himself confused as to the points of the compass. In this darkness, he was not even sure which was the way out.

"I'll have to use the flash now," concluded Dick.

Taking the long tube from one of his pockets, he pressed the button briefly, giving a flash that lasted barely a second.

"What was that?" muttered the boy, with a start, as the light went out.

Clearly enough, now, he heard stealthy steps. He was almost certain, too, that he distinguished the sound of low whispers.

"That flash has scared the rascals," throbbed Dick Prescott. "Now, if I can only locate 'em, and get out first! I may succeed in getting the police to the scene before both get away. One of 'em, anyway, I ought to be able to floor with this heavy cane!"

Transferring the light to his left hand, Dick took a strong grip of the cane. It did not eyed occur to him to be afraid in here. He was trying to trap the burglars as a piece of enterprise for "The Blade," and that was all he thought about.

Suddenly there was a more decided step in the darkness. It sounded, too, right in advance of the boy who stood there guessing in the dark.

"Halt, where you are!" shouted Dick. "And throw up your hands as high as you can, if you don't want to get drilled! Don't try to use your weapons, for I have the drop!"

It was sheer bluff, for the only thing with which Prescott could claim the drop was his cane.

Yet, in such circumstances, a bold front is half the battle.

Prescott bounded forward, boldly, at the same moment turning on his light.

The next moment, though he held the light, the cane dropped from his nerveless fingers.

"We've got you, Prescott!" roared a voice. "And you? Of all the thundering big surprises. But we've got you! Stop all nonsense and get in line to come along with us."

It was the chief of police, backed by three of his men, whom Dick now faced. They had thrown their lights on, too, so that there was now plenty of illumination.

Nor was this Chief Coy, one of Dick's old time friends, but Chief Simmons, a new man appointed only a few months before.

Chief Simmons was almost frantically anxious to catch the burglar or burglars, for their continued operations reflected upon his abilities as the new police chief.

All in a flash young Prescott took in the horrifying idea that Chief Simmons believed him to be the real burglar.

"But I——" began Dick chokingly.

"Yes, you will!" retorted Chief Simmons. "You can't put up any fight, and you can't make any denial."

"I——"

"Take him, you men, and handcuff him." roared the chief. "Then we'll go through the rest of the store, and see what we can learn."

Dick drew back, with a shudder, as two of the officers came toward him, intent on carrying out their chief's order.

"You'd better submit, Prescott," warned the chief sternly. "We're not in a mood to stand any fooling."

"But won't you listen——" began Dick, gasping.

"I'm not the trial judge," jeered Simmons. "Still, I'll listen to you all you want, later in the night. Now, stand forward!"

Dick realized the folly and the uselessness of defying the police. He moved nearer to the chief, as ordered. And Prescott began to understand how black the whole affair looked for him.

But how had it happened?

He would have given worlds to know.

"Hold your hands forward, and together," commanded Chief Simmons.

Quivering, flushing with the shame of the thing, young Prescott obeyed. The officer who fitted the handcuffs to the boy's wrists felt ashamed of his work, for he had always been one of Dick's friends.

The click of the steel ratchets brought Prescott back to a realization of things.

"I'm not much of a catch, chief," muttered the boy. "You'd better not be content with me alone. Leave me under watch and then the rest of you had better spread through this place. I think there are others here—the men you seek."

"You've confederates here, have you?" demanded Simmons, fixing his suspicious gaze on the boy. "Judkins, you watch Prescott—and mind you don't let him give you the slip. The rest of us will keep on going through this store. You say you think there are others here, Prescott?"

"I think so," replied the boy.

Chief Simmons raised his voice.

"If there's anyone here——" he called.

"There is!" came back in a tone that made Dick Prescott start and throb with alarm.

"Who—where—" asked Chief Simmons, excitedly.

"Right here!" came the voice. "Hold your lights on me!"

Two flash-lights at once centered their rays on the speaker, and Dave Darrin bounded forward into the light.

"So you two have been working this thing as side partners, have you?" asked Chief Simmons harshly. "Great Scott, how you've fooled us, then! Like everyone else, we believed you two boys to be straight. Tell me," commanded Simmons dryly, "is Editor Pollock in this store-robbing gang, too?"

"Ask Mr. Pollock yourself," Dave flung back.

"I will, when I get time," retorted Simmons. "Grab Darrin and put the irons on his wrists, too!"

XXIV. DAVE GIVES POINTS TO THE CHIEF OF POLICE

"You clumsy bungler!" spoke Dave Darrin hotly. "Chief, I demand the right to speak to you for a moment."

"After you're ironed and taken to the station house," snapped Mr. Simmons.

"Chief, you're not afraid to step aside with me and listen to about ten words?" demanded Darrin scornfully. "And if you don't—if you go on in your bull-headed way—you'll be the scorn of the town by morning. Why don't you hear what I've got to say, instead of letting precious seconds slip by. Come! Over this way!"

There was something so commanding in Darrin's voice and manner that Simmons concluded to listen for a moment.

Keeping his flash-light turned on Darrin, the chief of police followed Dave. Darrin whispered something in the big man's ear. In another moment the two were whispering together animatedly.

"Why didn't you come to the point before, Darrin?" demanded the chief gruffly.

"Great Scott, didn't I, as soon as I could postpone your mania for having me loaded down with police chains?"

"Yet how do I know you're telling me anything like the truth?"

"If I'm lying, you can find it out very quickly, can't you?" demanded Darrin. "But come along, or you'll be too late. Oh, why do all the biggest slow pokes in creation get appointed to the police force?"

"Come along with me, Delmar," ordered Chief Simmons, turning to one of his policemen. "The rest of you stay here—though you can pass on into the open air. Then wait there for us."

"Don't you waste any time on worry, Dick," Dave called back.

Prescott laughed easily. Whatever Dave had discovered, or thought he had, Darrin's chum was quite content now to await the result of all that enthusiasm.

"We must not make much noise," cautioned Darrin, as he led the way swiftly, though on tiptoe. "We don't want to scare the other people cold until we have them cooped so that they can't get away. But you'd better be ready, in case they're desperate enough to try shooting!"

Up the street, to the head of another alley way, Darrin led the swift chase.

"Now, softer than ever," he whispered, over his shoulder, without halting.

A moment later Dave halted before two stone steps that led down to a basement junk shop.

Just as he did so a low voice inside could be heard, saying in barely audible tones:

"I'm so anxious to know whether Prescott fell into the trap that I can hardly wait another minute."

"You'd better wait until morning, or you'll tumble into something with your eyes shut, and that will mean both of us nabbed," growled another voice.

"Do you think they found Prescott—that they believed in the appearances against him?"

"I can't say," came the other low voice. "And I can wait. I'm not crazy on the subject, as you seem to be."

"Explain this all over again, to us, won't you?" shouted the chief, pushing open the door of the junk shop and striding in, backed by the light and the revolver of Officer Delmar.

"What?" screamed Phin Drayne, then sank to his knees in the extremity of his terror.

"Don't either of you try to put up any fight," warned the chief. "Delmar, here are my handcuffs to put with your own. Hand me your light, and then iron both of these fellows securely."

The owner of the junk shop, a man under thirty, dirty and low browed, stood cowering back against a bench. The fellow looked as though he would have fought had there been any chance to draw a weapon. But he was gazing straight into the muzzle of the police chief's weapon.

An instant later both prisoners had been handcuffed, and a pistol had been taken from the clothing of each. From the junkman, too, had been taken a ring of keys.

"One of these fit your door?" demanded Simmons.

"Yes," growled the scowling one. "The long key."

"Bring the prisoners along, Delmar," ordered the chief. "I'll lock up here. We'll come back later for a search."

Out on the sidewalk Phin Drayne plucked up courage enough to find his voice.

"For goodness' sake, let me go, Chief," he begged, falteringly. "I haven't done anything, although things look against me."

"I guess we'll be able to put things enough against you," retorted the police official mockingly.

"Think of my mother!" pleaded the wild boy. "Think of our family—one of the most respectable in town. Think of——"

"Oh, you're enough to make one tired," broke in Dave Darrin, in deep disgust. "You thought of Dick Prescott when you put up the job to have him arrested as a burglar, didn't you?"

"Why, what do you mean? I didn't do anything to Dick Prescott," shouted Drayne angrily, or affecting to be angry.

"Tell that to the marines," quoth Darrin contemptuously. "It was through following on your trail, Drayne, that I discovered the whole trick, and also knew just where to take the police to find you."

An hour later Chief Simmons was well satisfied that he had laid the burglar scare in Gridley.

Not that the new chief had had so very much to do with the result, either.

The first move had been to get back to the Kahn store, where Dick Prescott was promptly freed, with the chief's hearty apologies.

Over at the police station, by separating Drayne from his accomplice, Bill Stevens, the junkman, and questioning each separately, the whole story had come out, chiefly through frenzied confessions.

Phin Drayne, loafing about town, and with his pocket money nearly cut off by his father, had formed the acquaintance of Stevens, who, besides being a junkman, was a very fair locksmith, though about the latter trade he had never bragged publicly.

Drayne had been ripe for any move that would place him in more funds. So, first of all, he and Stevens had entered the commercial establishment of Drayne, senior. There, thanks to Phin's knowledge of the premises, they had made a very good-sized "haul."

After that the pair had operated together frequently. Stevens' junk shop had offered a handy pace in which to hide the plunder.

Then, as time went on, and Phin heard, by chance, that Dick and Dave were trying to catch the burglars in behalf of "The Blade,", a plan had occurred to Phin by which he might ruin Dick utterly in the eyes of the community.

The whole plan had been carefully laid by Stevens and young Drayne.

On this night, just after Conklin's drug store had been closed for the night, Stevens had slipped in a key that had opened a side door for him. Then the door was left closed but unlocked. At that hour of the night no one was likely to notice anyone who went in or out at the side door. And Conklin's was equipped with a public telephone.

Then down to the alleyway had stolen the evil pair. Kahn's rear door had been opened with false keys and left ajar. Then Phin Drayne stole back to the junk shop, while Stevens, whose voice could not be recognized over the wire by Dick, sent the message.

Next, back to where he could watch the alleyway, hurried Stevens, and hid. Stevens saw Dick Prescott slip into the alleyway, then go inside the store. That was enough for Stevens, who had slipped back and into the drug store once more, getting the police station on the wire and 'phoning to the chief that Gridley's burglars had just entered Kahn's through the rear door.

Only a block and a half from Kahn's was the police station. Almost immediately the officers were on the spot, stalking—Dick Prescott.

But, at the time when Dick left his own home and went down the street so hurriedly Dave Darrin had been sauntering along, to call his chum out on their nightly quest for "The Blade." Seeing Dick move so swiftly, Darrin concluded that something most unusual was about to happen. So Dave trailed swiftly in the rear.

Thus it was that Darrin drew back just in time to see Bill Stevens slipping away from a hiding place at the head of that alleyway.

"That does for Prescott," chuckled Stevens, half aloud.

"Oh, it does, does it?" silently murmured alert Dave, and now he intently followed Stevens to the drug store, and thence back to the junk shop. Dave's next swift move was to rush back to Kahn's with the result already known.

"Well, did you think the folks of Gridley would continue to believe such a charge against young Prescott?" demanded Chief Simmons of the sneak.

"I knew some wouldn't, but I thought the whole affair would make such a row that Prescott would never be quite able to hold up his head in Gridley again," declared Drayne huskily. "But I thought that it would stop his thinking of going to West Point, anyway."

"Instead of which," muttered Simmons dryly, "you'll get four years—or more, Drayne at some place that won't be West Point."

"Oh, my father won't quite stand for that," returned Phin, a bit more loftily. "He has money and some family pride."

"Money doesn't help much for confessed burglars," rejoined Chief Simmons.

At that moment Heathcote Drayne, who had been roused out of bed by a policeman, came in, so white faced that Dick and Dave felt sorry indeed for the unhappy parent.

But Dick didn't remain to see the meeting between father and son. Prescott and his chum hastened around to "The Blade" office. Gladly enough would both boys have kept Phin's disgrace from going before the public, but it was too big a story, locally, and was bound to come out. So Dick wrote a straight account, after which he and Dave hurried home to get the fag end of a night's rest.

Gridley merchants lost but little, in the end, through the series of burglaries. Most of the plunder was recovered at the junk shop.

Bill Stevens was sent to prison for a term of eight years. Phin, being only seventeen, was allowed to plead his youth. In his case justice was satisfied with his commitment to a reform school until he should be twenty-one years of age.

And so ended the story of the mysterious burglaries.

XXV. CONCLUSION

One evening about a week after these events Dick and Dave were sitting in the former's room chatting, when Greg Holmes and Dan Dalzell, apparently in great good humor, broke in upon them.

"When do you go to West Point, Dick?" queried Greg.

"I'm ordered to report to the adjutant there on the first of March," Prescott replied.

"Mind my running up there with you?" demanded Greg.

"Why, I'd be tickled to pieces, if you can afford the trip, Greg."

"Oh, I guess I can," laughed the other boy. "Dad is going to pay my freight bill."

"See here, you fellows, you can't have been reading the newspapers much, since you two were appointed," broke in Dan Dalzell.

"What have we missed?" challenged Dave.

"Why, didn't you know a thing about Senator Frayne and his appointments?" went on Dan Dalzell. "The Senator doesn't appoint from a single district. He appoints at large from the whole state. Senator Frayne announced, a while ago, two appointments-at-large, one for West Point, the other for Annapolis."

"And we went up to the state capital yesterday," rattled on Greg. "We went through the examinations. The winners weren't named until this morning. You'll find it in the evening papers, later to-day. I go to West Point, and Dan goes to Annapolis."

"What?" yelled Dick, leaping as high as he could jump.

"Tell it to us again!" begged Darrin huskily.

"Oh, it's all a fact, straight and right enough," Greg assured them happily.

Then and there the four chums executed a war dance. It seemed too wonderful to believe.

"But isn't Gridley the whole show?" demanded Dave presently. "Four cadetships in the same year to one little city!"

"Well, we had to win 'em from other comers," retorted Greg. "And none of us are out of the woods yet. We've got to pass at West Point and at Annapolis.

"This is great!" quivered young Prescott. "But wouldn't it be grand if only Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had gotten in line, too, and gone along into the service with us? Then all of the old Dick & Co. would have been enrolled under the battle flag."

"But you know what Tom told us," put in Darrin. "He said he wouldn't live at West Point, and he wouldn't be caught dead at Annapolis. Tom is all for becoming a great civil engineer—a builder of railroads and all that sort of thing."

"Well, Harry Hazelton is just as bad," said Greg. "He's all for doing engineer stunts in the wilderness, too."

"Here they come now," announced Dan Dalzell.

Tom and Harry were heartily glad, of course, to hear of the luck that had befallen Greg and Dan.

"We were just wishing that you two had fallen into the same kind of luck, and that you were going into uniform with us," declared Dick.

Reade glared at Prescott.

"Humph!" muttered Tom. "I thought you were a friend of mine!"

"I judge it's a mighty good thing we don't all hunger for the same careers," laughed Harry. "For instance, all young fellows can't go into the United Service. There aren't jobs enough to go around. The United States Army is just about big enough to find with a good magnifying glass. As for the Navy——"

"Be careful," warned Darrin touchily.

"As for the Navy," continued Hazelton, "Congress has a lot of officers trained and then seems to think that one new battleship every other year or so ought to keep the country patient."

"You fellows are going to be downright happy, I know," resumed Tom. "But so are Harry and I. We finish out our High School work, and then our chance is ahead of us."

"To find?" queried Dave.

"No, sir! We've got it," retorted Tom. "It came to us only recently, and Harry and I have been keeping a bit quiet, but now it is time to tell the news—just in the circle of Dick & Co."

By dint of great hustling, and backed by recommendations from the local civil engineer, Reade and Hazelton had secured a chance, beginning in the coming July, to join as rodmen the engineering party that was laying a new railroad over the Rockies, in Colorado.

Just before the first of March, Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes slipped quietly away, and reported at West Point.

But what further happened to Dick and Greg—and there was a lot of it—must be reserved for the volumes of the new West Point series.

The first volume will appear under the title, "Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray."

Later on Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell left Gridley and home for Annapolis. Their adventures will be followed up in the new Annapolis series.

The first volume in this series will be entitled: "Dave Darrin's First Year at Annapolis; Or, Two Plebes at the Naval Academy."

Nor did Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton fail of some very extraordinary adventures in their chosen career of engineering. Their career led them into some of the wild spots of the earth. It will all be told in the Young Engineer series.

The first volume in this series will appear shortly under the caption: "The Young Engineers in Colorado; Or, at Railroad Building in Earnest."

How about the other Gridley folks whose acquaintance has been so enjoyable? Fred Ripley? Well, as to Fred—when we first made his acquaintance, he was anything but an agreeable fellow, but he learned his lesson in time, and, under the wholesome influence of Dick & Co., but especially of Dick Prescott himself, Fred had become a different boy. Such is the effect of good example.

As to the rest, many of them are bound to appear again, as we follow the fortunes of our Gridley boys through the tales of West Point, the annals of Annapolis and the doings of the Young Engineer Boys.

So here we will leave them all for the moment, soon to renew the acquaintance of all who had any future share in the lives or thoughts of the six splendid young Americans who were once known to their classmates as Dick & Co.

THE END