The High School Boys

Vacation Omnibus

by

H. Irving Hancock

BOOK INDEX

Book 1

The High School Boys' Canoe Club

Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant

Book 2

The High School Boys in Summer Camp

The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven

Book 3

The High School Boys' Fishing Trip

Dick & Co. in the Wilderness

Book 4

The High School Boys' Training Hike

Making Themselves "Hard as Nails"

THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB

or

Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant

CONTENTS

I. The "Splendid" War Canoe

II. "Rip" Tries Out His Bargain

III. Buying Fuel for a Bonfire?

IV. Hiram Pries a Secret Loose

V. Birch Bark Merchants

VI. Meeting the Fate of Greenhorns

VII. "Danny Grin" is Silent

VIII. What an Expert Can Do

IX. Dick Trembles at His Nerve

X. Putting Up a Big Scheme

XI. All Ready to Race, But——

XII. Susie Discomfits a Boor

XIII. The Ripley Heir Tries Coaxing

XIV. The Liar has a Lie Ready

XV. At the Greatest of Feasts

XVI. A Scalp-Hunting Disappointment

XVII. The Good Word by Wire

XVIII. "Won't Win Against a Mudscow"

XIX. What Ailed Gridley?

XX. "Dinky-Bat Hot Sail!"

XXI. Nature Has a Dismal Streak

XXII. Fred is Grateful—One Second!

XXIII. Trentville, The Awesome

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE "SPLENDID" WAR CANOE

"It's the wreck of one of the grandest enterprises ever conceived by the human mind!" complained Colonel W.P. Grundy, in a voice broken with emotion.

A group of small boys grinned, though they offered no audible comment.

"Such defeats often—usually, in fact—come to those who try to educate the masses and bring popular intelligence to a higher level," was the colonel's declaration, as he wiped away a real or imaginary tear.

On a nearby lot stood a large show tent, so grayed and frayed, so altogether dingy as to suggest that it had seen some summers of service ere it became briefly the property of Colonel Grundy.

Near the entrance to the tent a temporary platform had been built of the board seats taken from the interior of the tent.

Near the platform stood a grim-visaged deputy sheriff, conversing with an auctioneer on whose face the grin had become chronic.

Some distance from the tent stood a group of perhaps forty men of the town of Gridley.

"The whole outfit of junk won't bring five hundred dollars," predicted one of these men. "How much did you say the judgments total?"

"Seventeen thousand four hundred dollars," replied another. "But the man who attached the show has a claim for only six hundred and forty dollars, so he may get most of his money."

Here the auctioneer stopped talking with the deputy sheriff long enough to go over to the platform, pick up a bell and ring it vigorously. A few more stragglers came up, most of them boys without any money in their pockets.

Off at one side of the lot six boys stood by themselves, talking in low tones, casting frequent, earnest glances toward the platform.

These youngsters were Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell and Harry Hazelton. Collectively they were known in the boydom of Gridley as Dick & Co.

Our readers are already familiar with every one of these lads, having first been introduced to them in the "Grammar School Boys Series," with its four volumes, "The Grammar School Boys of Gridley," "The Grammar School Boys Snowbound," "The Grammar School Boys in the Woods" and "The Grammar School Boys in Summer Athletics." The varied and stirring exploits of Dick & Co., as told in these books, stamped the six chums as American boys of the best sort.

Then, in "The High School Freshmen," the first volume of the "High School Boys Series," our readers went further into the history of Dick & Co., and saw how even freshmen may impress their personalities on the life and sports of a high school. The pranks, the fights, the victories and achievements of that first year in high school had done much to shape the characters and mould the minds of all six of our boys.

The present narrative deals with all that happened in the vacation after Dick Prescott and his friends had finished their freshman year. The summer now lay before them for whatever might come to them in the way of work and pleasure. Though none of the six yet knew it, the summer was destined to bring to them the fullest measure of wonder and excitement.

And now let us get back to Dick & Co., that we may see just what befell them.

"Pshaw! There comes Fred Ripley," exclaimed Harry Hazelton.

"And he probably has a few ten dollar bills in his pockets," remarked Greg Holmes, rather enviously. "He will buy something."

Fred Ripley, as readers of "The High School Freshmen" remember, was the son of a wealthy local lawyer, and a bitter enemy to Dick Prescott and his friends.

"Fred just came here to buy something and then look at us with his superior smile," grunted Hazelton. "What do you say if we all walk away before the bidding begins?"

"Then Rip would grin," returned Tom Reade. "He'd know just why we went away. I came here to see what's going to happen, and I won't be chased away from here by Fred Ripley."

"Let's see if Fred can have any real fun with us," proposed Dick, with a quiet smile.

"He can have fun enough with us, if he guesses why we are really here," Dave Darrin uttered resentfully. "Ripley seems to think that money is made and supplied to him just in order that he may rub gall and wormwood into those whom he doesn't like!"

Fred kept well away from Dick & Co., though the six boys saw that he occasionally sent a covert look in their direction.

"Time to begin," said the deputy sheriff, after glancing at his watch.

Up to the platform jumped the auctioneer, bell in hand. Holding it with both hands he again rang vigorously for a full minute. The net result was to bring one shabby-looking man, two grammar school boys without a cent of money, and three children of not over four years of age into the lot.

"Ladies and gentlemen," began the auctioneer, in his glib tones, "we are presenting to-day a most unusual opportunity. Prizes will be distributed to many enterprising people of Gridley, though these prizes are all so valuable that I trust none of them will go for the traditional 'song.' It is seldom, indeed, in any community, however favored it may be in general, that such a diversified lot of excellent things is put under the hammer for purchase by discriminating buyers! As you all know, Colonel W.P. Grundy's Great & Colossal Indian Exposition & Aboriginal Life Delineations has met with one of the too-common disasters of the road. This great show enterprise must now be sold out in its entirety."

After an impressive pause, the silence was broken by a sob. Those in the crowd who were curious enough to turn, beheld the colonel with a handkerchief to his eyes, his shoulders heaving. Somehow the colonel's noisy grief failed to excite the sympathy of those assembled. It was suspected that the wrecked showman was playing for sympathy.

"Such a wealth of treasures is here offered," continued the auctioneer, "that for the first time in my career I confess myself unable to decide which article or lot to lay before you first."

"You said that last week at Templeton," laughed a man in the crowd. "Go on!"

Whereupon the auctioneer once more addressed his hearers in a burst of vocal fireworks.

"I wonder what Prescott and his mucker friends are here to bid on?" Fred Ripley was asking himself. "Whatever it is, if it's nothing that I want for myself I'll bid it up as high against them as I can. For, of course, they've pooled their funds for whatever they want to get. They can't put in more than a quarter apiece, so a dollar and a half is all I have to beat. I'll wager they already suspect that I'm here just to make things come higher for them. I hope they do suspect!"

It was just after the Fourth of July. The summer sun shone fiercely down upon the assemblage.

"Perhaps, first of all," announced the auctioneer, after pausing to take breath, "it will be the proper thing to do to offer the tent itself. At this point, however, I will say that the foreclosing creditor of the show himself bids two hundred dollars on the tent. No bid, unless it be more than two hundred dollars, can be accepted. Come, now, friends, here is a fine opportunity for a shrewd business man. One need not be a showman, or have any personal need of a tent, in order to become a bidder. Whoever buys this tent to-day will be able to realize handsomely on his investment by selling this big-top tent in turn to some showman in need of a tent. Who will start the bidding at three hundred dollars?"

No one started it. After the auctioneer had talked for five minutes without getting a "rise" out of any Gridley citizen, he mournfully declared the tent to be outside of the sale.

"Has anyone here any choice as to what he wants me to offer next?" questioned the salesman of the afternoon.

There was no response.

"Come, come, gentlemen!" rebuked the auctioneer. "Don't let the July sun bake your intellects, or the first cool day that comes along will find you all filled with unavailing regrets. Hasn't some one a choice as to what should be offered next?"

Still receiving no reply, he heaved a sigh, then added:

"I see that we shall have to start action in some way. Therefore we'll bring out something that is action personified, with grace mingled. Bring out the ponies. Gentlemen, I am now going to offer you your choice of eight of the handsomest ponies you ever——"

"But there are forty ponies and thirty-two good wagon horses," piped up a business man in the audience.

"There were," corrected the auctioneer, mournfully. "But most of the live stock was rented. Colonel Grundy had hoped to buy the stock gradually out of the receipts of the show. All that he owned in the way of live stock consisted of eight ponies. And here they come! Beauties, aren't they?"

Despite the heat of the day it was as though a frost had settled down over the scene. Many of the men present were butchers, grocers or others who had hoped to pick up cheap horses to be used in their business.

"Ponies are no good in this town," cried one man. "Lead 'em away. Come on, neighbors."

"Wait, wait!" urged the auctioneer. "There are some bargains yet to come that will interest you all. Since we have the ponies on the spot let us begin to run them off. It will teach you all how to bid quickly when you see wonderful bargains bought up under your noses!"

The bidding, however, was lax at first. A stable boy mounted one of the little animals, riding about at reckless pace.

"Now, start the bidding!"

After five minutes talking an opening bid of five dollars for the pony had been made and this had been advanced to seven.

With all the zeal at his command the auctioneer drove the bidding along. It reached fourteen dollars, and there stopped. At last the pony was knocked down to a man who thought he could use the animal in a very light delivery wagon.

"Now, gentlemen, wake up!" begged the auctioneer. "Let us have some bidding worthy of the fair name of Gridley for good judgment in business matters. Lead the roan pony forth."

Undoubtedly the first pony had been a fair bargain at fourteen dollars. The bidding on the second animal began at ten dollars, going quickly to eighteen. From that point the offers traveled slowly until twenty-six dollars had been named. At this price the pony was sold.

From that time on the ponies were "knocked down" rather briskly, though the highest-priced one of the first seven brought only thirty-one dollars.

Now came the eighth.

"You see what this animal is for yourselves, gentlemen," declared the auctioneer. "We don't need to have this sleek little animal's paces shown. We are in a hurry to get through. Who opens with twenty dollars?"

"He is a handsome little animal, isn't he?" exclaimed Dick Prescott, crowding forward and gazing at the pony with glistening eyes.

"I wish I had the money to buy him," whispered Dave Darrin.

"Maybe I couldn't use that kind of a cut-down horse!" glowed Tom Reade, while Harry and Dan looked on longingly.

"That's what the muckers are here after!" thought Fred Ripley, who had been watching them closely. "Now, no matter how much money they may think they have, I'll show them how easy it is for a fellow of my financial standing to step in and get the chestnut pony away from them!"

"Who starts the bidding with twenty dollars?" demanded the auctioneer.

"Ten," finally responded a man in the crowd.

"Thank you. But, gentlemen, ten dollars is a shame for a beautiful animal like this. Who makes it twenty? Start it right up now!"

Presently the bidding had reached sixteen dollars. Dick and his chums had crowded still closer to the pony, looking on with lively interest.

"Here's where I sting Prescott and his crew!" muttered Fred Ripley under his breath. Then, aloud, he called:

"Twenty!"

"Thank you," smiled the auctioneer, nodding in Ripley's direction. "Here is a young man of sound judgment and a good idea of money values, as his manner and his whole appearance testify."

"Someone hold Rip, or he'll burst," laughed Greg Holmes in Dick's ear.

But Fred thought the chums were conferring as to how far they could go with what means the six of them might have at hand.

"They will get going soon," thought Fred gleefully.

Just then Dick Prescott piped up:

"Twenty-two!"

"Twenty-two? Thank you," bowed the auctioneer. "Another young gentleman of the finest judgment. Who says twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three," offered Fred.

"Twenty-five," called Prescott promptly.

An instant after Dick had made this bid he felt heartily ashamed of himself. He hadn't intended to buy the pony, and didn't have the money. He had obeyed a sudden instinct to tease Fred Ripley, but now Dick wished he hadn't done it.

"Twenty-six!" called young Ripley.

The auctioneer looked at Prescott, but the latter, already abashed at his own conduct, made no further offer.

"Twenty-eight!" called a man in the crowd, who knew that the wealthy lawyer's son usually got whatever he wanted very badly. This new bidder thought he saw a chance to get the pony, then later to force Fred to pay a still higher price for the animal.

"Thirty!" called Ripley, with a sidelong glance at Dick & Co.

"Did I hear you offer thirty-five?" queried the auctioneer, singling out Dick Prescott.

But Dick remained mute. However, in the next instant Greg Holmes, ere Prescott could stop him, blurted out with:

"Thirty-two!"

"Thirty-four!" called Ripley briskly.

Greg opened his mouth, but Dick nudged him. "Don't bid, Greg. You'd feel cheap if you had to take the pony and couldn't produce the money," Dick admonished him.

"Thirty-five!" called the man who had raised the bidding before.

"Thirty-six," from Ripley.

"Thirty-eight!" called the man.

"Thirty-nine!" offered Fred, though he was beginning to perspire freely.

"Forty!" promptly offered the man.

"Forty-one!" said Fred.

And there it hung. After three minutes more of hard work on the auctioneer's part the pony went to Ripley at forty-one dollars.

"I don't know what my father will say to me for this," groaned the lawyer's son. "But, anyway, Prescott and his crew didn't get the chestnut pony, and this is the last piece of live stock, so there's none left for them."

He cast a triumphant look in the direction of those whom he termed "the mucker boys."

"Rip was bidding to keep us from getting a look-in!" whispered Tom Reade gleefully.

"That was what I thought," nodded Dick Prescott. "That was why I threw in a couple of bids—just to make him pay for his meanness. But I'm sorry I did it."

"Step up and pay your money!" ordered the auctioneer. "Don't keep us waiting all day."

"Won't a deposit do?" demanded Fred, coming forward.

"Yes; we'll take fifteen dollars, and hold your purchase until one hour after the sale closes," replied the auctioneer. "Then, if you don't come along fast with the remainder, your deposit will be forfeited."

"I'll raise the money all right," drawled Ripley, with an important air, as he passed up three five dollar bills. "Give me a receipt for this, please."

"You've money enough there to pay it all," said the auctioneer.

"Yes; but I may bid on something else," Fred replied.

"Good luck to you," laughed the auctioneer.

Presently along came a miscellaneous lot of the weapons that had been used by cowboys and Indians connected with the show. The auctioneer tried to close these out in one lot, but there were no bids.

Several of the younger men did brisk, but not high bidding for the rifles. These were disposed of.

Then tomahawks were offered for sale, singly. The first ones offered went at an average of twenty-five cents each. At last Dan Dalzell secured one for a nickel, paid his money and proudly tucked his purchase under his arm.

"Bring out the grand war canoe!" called the auctioneer at last.

Now every drop of blood in Dick Prescott's body tingled. His chums, too, were equally aroused. It was this that they had hope of securing—if it went off at a price next to nothing!

So intensely interested were the six young high school athletes in the proceedings now that each one steeled himself to prevent betraying the fact. All were aware that Fred Ripley's malicious eyes were watching them. If he suspected that they wanted the canoe he could put the bidding up to a figure that would make their wishes impossible of fulfillment.

Dick yawned. He looked intensely bored.

"Come along," proposed Dave in an audible voice. "There's nothing here we can get."

"Yes; it's getting tedious," hinted Tom Reade.

Dalzell and Hazelton also appeared to lose all interest in the auction.

"I was in hopes they'd want that canoe," muttered Fred Ripley, feeling as though he had been cheated out of a great pleasure. "As it happens I know all about that canoe. Wow! Wouldn't they groan if they put up all their money for the canoe—and then found out!"

Just then the canoe was brought out. It was bolstered up on a long truck, drawn by a pair of horses. Twenty-eight feet long, slender and of graceful lines, this canoe, with its oiled birch bark glistening in the sun, was a thing of beauty. It was one of the genuine articles that the show had carried—of real Indian model and workmanship.

"Gaze upon it, gentlemen!" cried the auctioneer enthusiastically. "Did you ever see the like of this grand war canoe? History in every line of it! Picture to yourselves the bygone days in which such a canoe, filled with painted braves, stole along in the shadows fringing the bank of some noble stream. Portray to your own minds such a marauding band stealing down stream upon some settlement, there to fall upon our hardy pioneers and put them to the death!"

"I'm glad I'm living now, instead of in those days," called a man from the crowd, raising a laugh.

"Gentlemen, before you are through," suggested the auctioneer, "one of you will be the proud and happy possessor of this magnificent war canoe. It is a priceless gem, especially when considered in the light of good old American history. Now, who will start the bidding? Who will say, clearly and distinctly, thirty dollars?"

"We're not brave enough in these days!" called a voice from the crowd.

"That's right, friends—have fun with me," retorted the perspiring auctioneer. "But don't let this valuable, beautiful trophy get away from you."

Yet, though the auctioneer labored for a full five minutes he couldn't raise a bid.

"Take it away! Take it back!" ordered the auctioneer wearily. "I was in hopes it would appeal to the artistic sense of this town, but it doesn't! Take it away."

"If no one else wants it," drawled Dick Prescott, "I'll offer two dollars."

"Thank you for good intentions, anyway," replied the salesman on the platform. "Two dollars I'm bid. Who says ten? Now, do wake up, friends!"

But the bidding lagged.

"This beautiful war canoe!" cried the auctioneer desperately. "It was the pride of the show. A real Indian canoe, equipped with gunwale seats and six Indian paddles. And only two dollars offered. Gentlemen, do I hear three? No! Last call! It's pitiful—two dollars!"

Dick Prescott and all his friends were now in the seventh heaven of prospective delight. It seemed unreal, that they could get this treasure for any such sum.

"If I must do it, I must," groaned the auctioneer. "Two I'm offered. Does anyone say more. Make it four! No? Make it three! No? Last call! Going, going——"

In another instant the big war canoe would have been knocked down to young Prescott at two dollars. Dick was "all on edge," though he strove to conceal the fact.

"At two dollars, then!" groaned the auctioneer. "Two dollars! All right, then. Going, going——"

Just then the word "gone" would have been uttered, and the canoe gone to Dick & Co.

"Three dollars!" called Fred Ripley.

There was a pause, while the auctioneer exhorted the crowd to wake up.

"Four," said young Prescott, at last, but he spoke with pretended indifference.

"Five," chimed in a man who now seemed to take an interest. The bidding now went up slowly, a dollar at a time, with these three bidders, until twelve dollars was reached. Then the man dropped out. Dick was outwardly calm, though his chums shivered, for they knew that their combined capital did not reach the amount now being offered.

"I'm afraid that canoe is going to Dick's head," whispered Harry Hazelton anxiously to Tom Reade.

"Let him alone," retorted Tom in a low voice. "It's one of Dick Prescott's good points that he generally knows what he's doing."

"But we have only——"

"Never mind if we're worth a million, or only a single dollar," interrupted Reade impatiently. "Watch the battle between our leader and Rip, the Mean!"

Now the bidding became slower, fifty cents at a time being offered, bids coming only when the auctioneer threatened to "knock down."

"I don't want to get this confounded canoe fastened onto me," grumbled Fred Ripley to himself. "I want to stick Prescott and his crowd for all I can, but I must look out that I don't get stung. I know better than to want that canoe, no matter how good it looks!"

"Sixteen," said Dick at last, feeling more desperate inwardly than his face showed.

"Sixteen-fifty," from Ripley.

"Seventeen," offered Dick, after a pause.

"Seventeen-fifty," announced Fred, after another long bait.

"Eighteen!" followed up young Prescott. He was in a cold perspiration now, lest the fight be forced too far.

To his astonishment, Fred Ripley, an ugly sneer on his face, turned his back on the bidding.

"Are you through, gentlemen?" demanded the auctioneer, after a keen look in the direction of the lawyer's son.

"I am," Ripley growled over his shoulder.

"I am offered eighteen! Eighteen! Eighteen! Who says nineteen? Make it eighteen-fifty! Who says eighteen-fifty? Eighteen and a quarter! Are you through, gentlemen? Then going, going—gone! Sold to Master Prescott at eighteen dollars. Young man, I congratulate you. Walk right up and pay your money! All, or a deposit?"

Dick, who had been collecting loose change from his chums, now came forward.

"I'll pay a deposit of seven dollars," he announced.

"Hand it here, then. Seven dollars; thank you. Here's your receipt. Now, remember, Prescott, you have until the end of one hour after the sale closes. Then, if you're not here with the other eleven dollars, you must expect to forfeit this deposit."

"I know," Dick nodded.

Then he hurried off to his chums.

"Come along," he said, with desperate energy, as he led them away from the field. On the sidewalk he halted.

"We've got it, fellows!" he exulted. "We've got it! Hooray!"

"Yes; we've got it, if we've got eleven dollars more—which we haven't," Greg remarked.

"We've eleven dollars more to raise," Prescott went on hurriedly. "Roughly, that's two dollars apiece. We must hustle, too."

"No hustle for mine," yawned Dan Dalzell. "I'll just step down to my bank and get the money. Will two dollars be enough, Dick?"

"Stop that talk," ordered Dave Darrin, getting a grip on Dan's shirt collar. "If you don't, I'll thrash you! Dick has a scheme. Out with it, old chap!"

"The scheme is simple enough," said Prescott hurriedly. "We must each get two dollars, and get it like lightning. That will come to a dollar over the amount we need, but we shall need the extra dollar, anyway. So hustle! Borrow the money from anyone who'll let you have it. Offer to work the money out at any time—any old kind of work. The only point is to come running back with the money. Get it in any honest way that you can, and don't one of you dare to fail, or we'll lose our deposit money and our canoe. Start!"

Nor did Prescott lose any time himself, but raced down the street, turned into Main Street and ran on until he came to the little cross street on which stood the bookstore conducted by his father and mother.

"Mercy, Dick! What makes you run so?" asked Mrs. Prescott. Dick was rejoicing to discover that there was, at this moment, no customer in the store.

"Mother," replied her son, "I want to borrow three dollars this minute. I'll be responsible for it—I'll pay it back. Please let me have it—in a hurry!"

Then, briefly, he poured out the story. Mrs. Prescott's hand had already traveled toward the cash register.

"We're very short of money just now, my boy. Try to earn this and pay it back quickly. You know, trade is slow in the summer time, and we have several bills to meet."

"Yes, I'll pay it back, mother, at the first chance—and I'll make the chance—somehow," promised young Prescott. "Thank you."

The money in his hand, Dick raced back to the lot where the show tent still stood.

He was back before any of the others and waited impatiently. Dave Darrin came up ten minutes later.

"Did you get it?" asked Dick anxiously.

"Yes," replied Dave laconically, pushing two one dollar bills into Dick's hand.

One by one the other boys arrived. Each had managed to round up his part of the assessment.

With thirteen dollars in his hand, Dick went up to the auctioneer's clerk.

"I am ready to pay the other eleven dollars on the canoe," Prescott announced, speaking as calmly as possible.

"All right," agreed the clerk. "But you'll have to find some man you can trust to take the bill of sale. We can't pass title to a minor."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" Dick demanded.

"That's all right. It wasn't necessary before, but it is now. Just find some man who will treat you all right and give you the canoe. Then we'll take the money and make out the bill of sale to him."

Fred Ripley now sauntered up, offering his money. He was given the same directions for finding a man to whom title could pass.

Dick looked about him. Then across the lot, and over on the further side of the street he saw his father.

Dick returned quickly to the lot with Mr. Prescott, explaining the situation. The bookseller listened gravely, but offered no objections. He stepped over, paid the money for Dick, then said:

"I must be going. Turn the canoe over to my son."

"Yes, sir," replied the auctioneer's clerk. "Men, haul out the truck that has the canoe on."

Mr. Prescott had already walked away. Dick and his chums greeted the coming of truck and canoe with a wild whoop. Then they piled up on the truck to inspect their treasure.

Fred Ripley, returning with Mr. Dodge, a local banker, saw the six youngsters climbing up to look at their purchase. A broad, malicious grin appeared on Ripley's face.

"Sold! sold!" gasped Dave Darrin. Then his face flushed with anger. For the canoe, which looked well enough on exhibition, proved to have three bad holes in her hull, which had been carefully concealed by the manner in which the craft had been propped up on the truck.

The great war canoe looked worthless—certain to sink in less than sixty seconds if launched!

II. "RIP" TRIES OUT HIS BARGAIN

Had a meaner trick ever been played on boys with whom it was so hard to raise money?

"Ha, ha, ha!" chuckled Fred Ripley, so loudly that the dismayed, angry boys could not fail to hear him.

"You sneak! You knew it all the time!" flared Dave Darrin, gazing down in disgust at the lawyer's son.

"Maybe I did know," Fred admitted, yet speaking to Mr. Dodge. "You see, one of my father's clerks served the papers which attached the show."

There was no help for Dick & Co. They had parted with their money and their "property" had been turned over to them.

It is an ancient principle of law that the buyer must beware. The auctioneer had been most careful not to represent the canoe as being fit for service. He had offered it as an historical curiosity!

Dick & Co. looked at the canoe anxiously.

"What shall we do with it?" asked Dave Darrin moodily.

"Make a bonfire of it?" asked Danny Grin.

"Might as well," Greg nodded.

"No, sir!" Dick interrupted. "Tom, what do you say? You're one of the really handy boys. Can't this canoe be patched up, mended and put in commission?"

"It might be done," Tom answered slowly.

The other five stood regarding him with eager interest.

"But we'd have to get an Indian here to show us how to do it."

"Where are the Indians that were here with the show?" asked Harry Hazelton.

"They went away as soon as the show was attached," Dick answered. "Probably they're hundreds of miles from here now. They were only hired out to the show by their white manager, and they've gone to another job. Besides, they were only show Indians, and probably they've forgotten all they ever knew about canoe-building—if they ever did know anything."

"Then I don't see but that we're just as badly off as ever," sighed Greg. "We're out eighteen dollars and the fine canoe that we expected would provide us with so much fun."

"The paddles look all right, anyway," spoke up Harry Hazelton, lifting one out of the canoe and looking it over critically.

"Oh, yes, the paddles are all right, and the river is close at hand," spoke Dave Darrin vengefully. "All we need is a canoe that will float."

"If it were a cedar canoe we might patch it easily enough," Prescott declared. "But I've heard that there is so much 'science' to making or mending a birch bark canoe that an amateur always makes the job worse."

"Haw, haw, haw!" came boisterously from Fred Ripley. He and Mr. Dodge were now standing before the table of the auctioneer's clerk. Fred was paying down the remaining twenty-six dollars on the price he had bid for the handsome chestnut pony.

"Yes, you're laughing at us, you contemptible Rip!" scowled Dave, though he spoke under his breath. "You can afford to lose money, for you always know where to get more. You knew this canoe was worthless, and you deliberately bid it up on us—you scoundrel!"

"Shall we make Colonel Grundy a present of this canoe?" suggested Danny Grin dolefully.

"The poor old man hasn't money enough to get the canoe away from here, even if he wanted to," replied Dick, in a voice of sympathy.

"But how did the show folks manage to use this canoe?" asked Tom Reade.

"They didn't, except on a truck in a street parade, I imagine," Dick replied. "And that must be how the holes came to be in the bottom. The sun got in its work on the bark and oil, and blistered the body of the canoe so that it broke or wore away in spots. Oh, dear!"

The sale was over, but a few odds and ends remained. Fred Ripley, having now paid the whole of his forty-one dollars through Mr. Dodge, ordered his handsome new purchase led out.

A man came out, holding the pony's halter. He walked slowly, the pony moving contentedly after him.

"A fine little animal!" glowed Fred, stroking the glossy coat.

"He—er—looks rather old, doesn't he?" ventured Mr. Dodge.

"Not so very old," Fred answered airily. "There is a lot of life and vim left in this little fellow. And he can show speed, too, or I'm all wrong."

Then Fred's eye roved toward the pile of stuff on which no one had bid.

"There's a good saddle," suggested Ripley. "The real western kind," nodded the auctioneer.

It looked the part.

"I'll give you two dollars for the saddle," Fred offered.

"You'll pay ten if you get that saddle," replied the red-faced auctioneer.

"Put it up and let us see how the bids will run," proposed Ripley.

"The sale is closed. Anything that is sold now will go at private sale," retorted the auctioneer.

"Oh, come now!" protested Ripley. "I'd like to trade with you."

"You can, if you produce the price. At least, your friend can. I can't deal with you, for you're a minor."

Fred tried vainly to persuade the auctioneer to lower the price of the saddle, but finally concluded to pay ten dollars for it and two dollars for a bridle. A worn saddle cloth was "thrown in" for good measure. Ripley handed the money to the auctioneer's clerk.

"Saddle up," directed Fred, tossing a quarter to the man who held the pony's bridle.

Though flushed with his bargain, Fred was also feeling rather solemn. He had parted with nearly all of the sixty dollars his father had handed him that morning as his summer's spending money. He was beginning to wonder if his pony would really take the place of all the fun he had planned for his summer vacation.

"Here is your mount, sir," called the man who had done the saddling. "Now, let's see what kind of a horseman you are."

"As good as you'll find around Gridley," declared Fred complacently.

Putting a foot into the left stirrup, he vaulted lightly to the animal's back.

"He has a treasure, and we're stung," muttered Dave Darrin in a low voice. "Those that have plenty of money and can afford to lose don't often lose!"

Before starting off Fred, glancing over at Dick & Co. standing dolefully on the truck, brayed insolently:

"Haw, haw, haw!"

Dave clenched his fists, but knew that he could do nothing without making himself ridiculous.

"Get up, Prince!" ordered young Ripley, bringing one hand smartly against the animal's flank.

"He's going to call his pony 'Prince,'" whispered Danny Grin.

"It looks like an appropriate name," nodded Dick wistfully.

For some reason the pony didn't seem inclined to start. Fred dug his heels against the animal's side and moved away at a walk.

"A-a-a-ah!" murmured a crowd of small boys enviously.

"Now, show a little speed, Prince," ordered Fred, digging his heels in hard.

The pony broke into a trot. Someone passed Ripley a switch, with which he dealt his animal a stinging blow. Away went pony and rider at a slow canter.

"Fine gait this little fellow has," exulted Fred, while cheers went up from the small boys.

Suddenly the animal slowed down to a walk. Fred applied two sharp cuts with the switch, again starting his mount. Fred turned and came cantering back toward the group, feeling mightily proud of himself.

Suddenly the pony stopped, trembling in every limb.

"Get off, young man!" called someone. "Your pony is going to fall!"

Fred got off, feeling rather peculiar. He wished that the six fellow high school boys over on the truck would move off.

Mr. Dodge hurried over to the young man, looking very much concerned.

"Fred," murmured the banker, "for all his fine looks I'm afraid there is something wrong with your pony."

"What is it?" asked Fred, looking, as he felt, vastly troubled.

At that moment an automobile stopped out in the road.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Dodge," called the chauffeur, "but are you going to want me soon?"

"I want you at once," called back the banker, adding in a lower voice to Fred:

"Flannery, my new chauffeur, was a coachman for many years. He's a fine judge of horseflesh."

Flannery came up, an inquiring look on his face.

"I want you to look this pony over and tell me just what you think of him," directed the banker.

Flannery went over the pony's "lines" with the air of an expert, as, indeed, he was.

"Fine-looking little beast," said Flannery. "He has been well fed and groomed."

Then he looked into the pony's mouth, examining the teeth with great care.

"Used to be a nice animal once," decided Flannery, "but he was that a long time ago. He's about twenty-five or twenty-six years old."

"What!" exploded young Ripley, growing very red in the face.

"Thinking of buying him, sir?" asked the chauffeur respectfully."

"I've already bought him," confessed Fred ruefully.

Flannery whistled softly. Then he took the pony by the bridle, dragging him along over the ground at a trot, the crowd making way for him.

"Wind-broken," announced the ex-coachman, leading the trembling animal back. "Bad case, too."

"A veterinary can cure that," Fred declared, speaking more airily than his feelings warranted.

"Hm!" replied Flannery dryly. "You find the veterinary, Master Fred, and I'll show the gentleman how to make his fortune if he can cure wind-broken horses."

"Then what good is the pony?" demanded Fred in exasperation.

"Well, the hide ought to fetch three dollars, and there are a good many pounds of soap fat in him," replied Flannery slowly.

"And is that all the good there is in this pony?" cried Ripley. He felt like screaming.

"It's all the good I can see in him, sir," replied Flannery.

"Then I won't take this pony," young Ripley declared, flushing hotly. "It's a downright swindle. Here, my man, hand my money back and take your old soap box."

"Not to-day," declared the auctioneer briefly. He and his clerk were now preparing to depart.

"You'd better!" warned Fred.

"I won't."

"Then I'll have you arrested."

"Try it."

"Run and get a policeman," Fred ordered, turning to a crowd of small boys.

"All right," smiled the auctioneer. "If you'll be quick about it I'll wait for your policeman."

But Mr. Dodge, who had shaken his head toward three boys who had shown signs of being willing to run for a policeman, now led young Ripley to one side.

"No use making any fuss about it, I'm afraid, Fred. You saw the pony when it was offered for sale, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't ask to have him run? You didn't demand the privilege of trying him yourself?"

"No, sir."

"What representations did the auctioneer make about the pony?" pressed Mr. Dodge.

"Why, he said the pony was a fine-looking animal——"

"And that's no lie," responded Mr. Dodge gravely. "What else?"

"That's the only representation that I did make," broke in the auctioneer, who had strolled slowly over to them. "I also said that the pony showed all of his good points."

"I'm afraid you'll have to swallow your loss, Fred," suggested the banker. "I'm sorry that I had even an innocent part in this trade."

"Trade?" screamed Fred, now losing all control of himself. "It wasn't a trade at all! It's piracy! It's highway robbery! It was a barefaced swindle, and this swindler"

Fred glared at the auctioneer.

"Go slowly, young man," advised the salesman of the afternoon.

"You're a swindler, and a mean one, taking downright advantage of other folks," stormed young Ripley. "But you won't get away with this swindle. My father is a lawyer—the best lawyer in the place—and he'll give you good reason to shiver!"

"All right, young man. Send your father after me—if he'll take the case. But I'm going down to see him, anyway, for I must give him an accounting of the money taken in this afternoon. Come along, Edson," to his clerk.

Very red in the face, Fred Ripley stood with his fists clenched, trying to avoid the eyes of the many grinning men and boys gathered around him.

Dick & Co. had gotten down from the truck. They did not join in the fun-making at the enemy's expense, though naturally they did not feel very sorry for young Ripley.

"Will you ride your pony home, sir?" asked the man who had done the saddling.

"No," said Fred shortly. He felt tempted to tell the man to lead the worthless animal away and shoot it. Then he changed his mind.

"Take this half dollar," he said, "and take the pony down and leave it in our stable."

For another thought had just occurred to Fred Ripley. If he kept a close mouth, and watched his chance, he hoped that he might yet be able to make some sort of "trade" with the pony as an asset.

III. BUYING FUEL FOR A BONFIRE?

"Well, what are we going to do with our magnificent war canoe?" asked Greg Holmes dolefully. "Does the bonfire idea go?"

"It doesn't," Dick retorted. "Although we don't know anything about such a job, and though it is supposed to need a sure enough expert to do it, we're at least going to try the thing out and see if we can't make this canoe float, and carry us safely, at that!"

"We'd better decide how to get it away from here, anyway," proposed Tom Reade. "We haven't any lease of this lot."

Over near the road a group of men and boys were laughing heartily. It was at the lawyer's son that their mirth was directed. As for Dick & Co., the Gridley crowd felt only sympathy. The proceedings of the afternoon had but emphasized the old idea that at an auction sale one must either use great judgment or take his chances.

"Say," called Dick, "there goes the very man we ought to ask for advice. Harry, will you run over and ask Hiram Driggs to come here?"

Hazelton, nodding, hurried away at full speed. "Hiram Driggs is an awfully high-priced man," sighed Tom Reade.

"Perhaps his mere advice won't come high," young Prescott answered. "If it does, we'll begin right by telling him that we have no money—that we've nothing in fact but a birchbark white elephant on our hands."

Driggs came over promptly, his keen, shrewd eyes twinkling.

"So you boys have been buying away from my shop, and have been 'stung,' eh!" queried Driggs, a short, rather stout man, of about forty.

"Robbed, I'd call it," replied Dave Darrin.

"Same thing, at a horse trade or an auction sale," hinted Hiram dryly as he got up on the truck. "Let's have a look at your steam yacht."

For a few moments Driggs looked the canoe over in grim silence.

"Whew!" was time final comment.

"Pretty bad, isn't it?" Dick inquired.

"Well, for my part, I'd sooner buy a real wreck," Driggs announced. "This may be an auctioneer's idea of honor. What was his name?"

"The auctioneer's name? Caswell," Dick answered.

"I'll make a note of that name," said Driggs, drawing out notebook and pencil, "and keep away from any auction that has a man named Caswell on the quarter-deck. Now, boys, what do you want to know about this canoe that your eyes don't tell you?"

"About how much would it cost us to fix her?" asked Prescott.

"Thirty dollars—maybe thirty-two," said Driggs, after another casual look at the canoe.

"Let's announce the bonfire for to-night," urged Greg.

"We haven't any such sum of money, Mr. Driggs," Dick went on.

"Too bad, boys, for you'd probably have a lot of fun in this craft. If you want to sell it, maybe I could allow you four dollars for the craft as she stands."

"We'd hate to part with the canoe," Dick continued.

"I know, I know," remarked Driggs sympathetically. "It was wanting a boat badly when I was a boy that drove me into the boat business. But I didn't have to handle birch bark then, or my first craft would have sunk me. Say, boys, great joke how young Ripley got stung so badly, wasn't it?"

"I know about how he feels," remarked Dick.

"Yes, of course," smiled Driggs. "But you boys are entitled to some honest sympathy. I don't imagine young Ripley will get much sympathy, will he?"

"Not a heap," Greg Holmes answered.

"Well," resumed Driggs, "I ain't a mite sorry for the boy and his make-believe pony. But I wish I could help you with your boat, for I know you haven't any loose money to throw around like young Rip."

Driggs dug his hands deep into his pockets and wrinkled his brow in thought.

At last he looked up hopefully.

"I'll tell you what I've been thinking about, boys. The town will be laughing at young Ripley to-morrow. But Rip, he'll be passing the laugh around on you young fellers, too. Now, I don't mind Rip's troubles; but it's different with you boys, and I know how it stings to part with all the money you could scrape together. Now, let's look this job over. I could say about thirty dollars for this job. It will cost twenty, and the other ten dollars would be profit, interest on my investment in my shop and so forth. Now, I'll let this job go at just the cost—twenty dollars, and throw off the profit and trimmings. Yes—to you young fellows—I'll call the job twenty dollars."

"That's kind of you," said Dick, with a grateful sigh. "But we want to be honest with you, Mr. Drigg—Twenty dollars, or five, or a hundred—it would be all the same to us. We haven't the money."

"Not so fast," returned Driggs, his eyes twinkling. "I'll give you credit, and treat the debt as a matter of honor between us."

"But I don't know how we'd pay you back," Dick went on. "As it is, we've borrowed a good bit of money that we've got to pay back."

"Exactly," agreed Driggs, "and you want to pay the other money back before you pay me. Yes; I'll take the job at cost—twenty dollars, and I'll throw in the use of one of my teams and trucks to come up here and get the canoe."

"But I'm afraid, sir, that we'd be a very long time paying you."

"No, you won't," Driggs disputed. "I don't allow long time bills, but I'll show you a way to pay me back fairly early, if you boys have the energy—and I believe you have. Now, you see, first off, boys, we'll need a lot of birch bark. I haven't any in stock, and the kind that is sound and good for canoe building is scarce these days. Now, first off, you'll have to range the woods for bark. Do you know where to find it?"

"Yes," Dick nodded. "Over on that place they call Katson's Hill."

"But that's about eleven miles from here," objected Driggs.

"I know it is," Prescott answered. "But the point is that Katson's Hill is wild land. No tax assessor knows who is the owner of that land, and it wouldn't bring enough money to make it worth while to sell it at a sheriff's sale. So a number of farmers turn their cattle in there and use it for free grazing ground. As no owner can be found for the land we won't have to pay for the birch bark that we cut there."

"That's so," Driggs acknowledged. "But it's an awful distance, and over some mighty rough bits of road. You'll be about dead after you've packed a load of birch bark in from Katson's Hill."

"That wouldn't be anything, compared with having to do without our canoe," Dick returned.

"Maybe not," Driggs conceded. "Now, boys, is there much of that birch bark on Katson's Hill?"

"There must be several shiploads," Dave Darrin replied.

"Good enough. Then, see here. I'll take this job at twenty dollars, if you boys will get the birch bark. After you've brought in enough to patch the canoe then you can bring in enough more to amount to twenty dollars. Is that a go?"

"It's wonderfully kind of you," Dick answered gratefully.

"Not much it isn't," Driggs grinned, "and it will make that young Ripley cub feel mighty sore and cheap when he finds that he was the only one who got 'skinned' at this auction. But before you get through cutting and hauling birch bark you may think I'm a pretty hard taskmaster. I'll call it a go, if you boys will."

"We'll pay our full debt, Mr. Driggs, and pay you a load of thanks besides."

"All right," nodded Driggs, jumping down off the truck, in haste to get away from the embarrassment of being thanked. "Some of you just hang around here until my man, Jim Snowden, gets up here with the truck. After Jim starts away with your war canoe then you can leave the rest to me, except cutting and hauling several loads of birch bark to square up matters."

Driggs beat a hasty retreat now. When he had gone the members of Dick & Co. exchanged glances. Then Holmes began to dance his best idea of a jig.

"We'll have that bonfire at eight o'clock tonight, Greg," Dick reminded him with a smile.

"Will you?" demanded Greg, scowling fiercely. "If any of you fellows have any matches, then just keep away from that canoe, or I'll fight. We can't afford to take any risks. Whoop!"

"Whoop!" answered Harry Hazelton, standing on his head.

"Whoop!" echoed Dave Darrin, giving Danny Grin a playful punch that sent Dalzell sprawling.

They were as happy a lot of boys as one could wish to see. They were to have their canoe and all the sport that that meant. It was to be a safe craft—as good as new! For Hiram Driggs was a dependable and skilful boat builder.

"Hey, too bad you fellows got stung so fearfully," cried a grammar school boy in passing. "I'm mighty sorry."

"Thank you," Dick answered. "But we're going to have the canoe repaired. We'll be having lots of fun in the war canoe after a few days."

"How you going to get her fixed?" asked the other boy.

"Hiram Driggs has taken the job, and you know what he can do with boats."

"Whee! I'm glad on you're going to have the canoe fixed all right," nodded the other boy, and passed on.

Forty-five minutes after Driggs' departure Jim Snowden came up with the truck. With the help of the boys he loaded the canoe from the other truck, then started away.

By this time the news had spread to other boys that Dick & Co. would soon have their war canoe afloat in fine order—that Hiram Driggs stood sponsor for the prediction.

That evening Fred Ripley had a somewhat unpleasant talk with his father.

"You've no business with pocket money," said Squire Ripley sternly. "You have no idea of the value of it."

"I thought I had made a good bargain," said Fred sullenly.

"So does every fool who parts with his money as easily as you do," returned the lawyer. "Well, enjoy yourself, my boy. If you'd rather have that paralyzed pony than the money I gave you to enjoy the summer with, I suppose you're entitled to your choice, though I don't like your judgment."

"Of course," suggested Fred, "since I've met with misfortune you won't be too hard on me. You'll let me have a little more money, so I won't have to go through the summer like a mucker."

"I'll give you no more spending money this summer," retorted the lawyer, adding, grimly: "If I did, you'd probably go and buy a cart to match your horse."

In fact Fred felt so uncomfortable at home that, just after dark, he started up Main Street.

"Where's your horse, Fred?" called Bert Dodge. "Why are you walking when you own one of the best steeds that ever came out of Arabia?"

"Shut up, won't you?" demanded Fred sulkily.

Bert chuckled for a while before he went on:

"Of course, I'm sorry for you, Fred, but it's all so funny that I can't help laughing."

"Oh, yes, it must be awfully funny," replied young Ripley testily.

"But you can afford it," said Bert. "You can get more money from your father."

"I suppose so," Ripley assented, not caring to repeat his interview with his father. "Anyway, I'm glad that Dick Prescott and the rest of his crowd got fooled as badly as I did. And they can't get any more money this summer."

"I guess they must have gotten some already," Bert rejoined. "Didn't you hear the news about that canoe?"

"What news?" asked Fred quickly.

"Why, they've engaged Hiram Driggs to put the canoe in good order."

"Where did they get the money?" asked Fred, his brow darkening.

"I don't know," was Bert's rejoinder. "But they must be able to raise money all right, for Driggs has the canoe down at his yard, and he has promised it to them in a few days."

This news came like a slap in the face to the lawyer's son. He remained with Bert for another hour, but all the time Fred brooded over the fact that Dick & Co. were to have their canoe after all.

"At that, I don't know that they will have their canoe," Fred remarked darkly to himself as he started homeward.

Shortly after midnight Fred Ripley sneaked away from his home, turning his face in the direction of Hiram Driggs' boatyard.

IV. HIRAM PRIES A SECRET LOOSE

When he left home Fred Ripley had no clearly defined idea as to what he meant to do.

However, he had in one pocket a keen-bladed pocket knife. Well wrapped in paper a short but sharp-edged chisel rested in one of the side pockets of his coat.

At the outset his only purpose was to do irreparable mischief to the war canoe. The means of accomplishing that purpose he must decide upon when he reached the boatyard.

How dark it was, and how hot! Late as the hour was the baking heat of the day did not seem to have left the ground. Fred walked along rapidly, fanning his perspiring face with his straw hat.

"They'll have their war canoe in the water in a few days, will they?" the lawyer's son muttered. "Humph!"

Through the side streets he went, keeping a sharp lookout. Conscious of the fact that he was bent on an unworthy errand, Fred did not care to be recognized abroad at this unusual hour.

In a few minutes he had reached the boatyard. This was surrounded by a high board fence, and the gate was locked.

"It won't do to get over the fence," young Ripley decided. "I might be seen and watched. But I know a way."

At one corner of the yard the fence ran almost, though not quite to the bank of the river.

Keeping well within the shadow of the fence, young Ripley hastened toward this point.

Here the amount of space was not sufficient for him to step around the end of the fence. However, by grasping it on both sides Fred could swing himself around it and into the boatyard. He did so with ease, then halted, peering cautiously about the yard.

"No one here," the lawyer's son decided at last. "Whew! I wouldn't dare even to stumble over a tramp taking a nap here. This is ticklish business, or it would be if I were caught here. Now, where is the canoe?"

Early in the evening the moon had shone, but now the stars gave all the light there was to be had. It was so close in the yard that Fred soon pulled off his jacket, carrying it or his arm.

Nowhere in the open yard was the canoe to be seen. There were three semi-open sheds. Into each of these in turn Ripley peered. The canoe was nowhere to be found.

"I'm a fool to lose my sleep and take all the risk for this!" grunted the boy, halting and staring moodily about him in his great disappointment. He now glared angrily at a large building, two-thirds boathouse and one-third boat-building shop.

"Hiram Driggs had the canoe taken in there!" muttered the boy. "Just my luck. I couldn't get into that building unless I broke a window—and I don't dare do that."

Still determined to get at the canoe, if possible, Fred stole down to the inclined platform from which boats were carried to the water. But the water-front entrance to the boathouse also proved to be locked.

"There's no show for me here," grunted the young prowler. "I wonder if any of the windows have been left unlocked."

His good sense told him that it would be a serious matter indeed to raise a window and enter the building—if he were caught.

But Fred, after a few moments of strained listening, decided to take the chance. At any hazard that he dared take he must get to the war canoe and put it out of commission for all time.

He tried three of the windows. All of them proved to be locked.

"I'm going to have some more of my usual luck," groaned young Ripley. "I wonder why it is that I always have such poor luck when I have my heart most set on doing a thing?"

He was slipping along to the fourth window when he heard a sound that almost caused his heart to stop beating.

Merely the sound of footsteps pausing by the gate to the boatyard—that was all, for a moment. But Fred cowered in acute dread.

"Who's in there?" called a steady voice, that filled Fred Ripley with consternation, He knew that voice! It belonged to a member of the Gridley police force.

"Talk about your tough luck!" shivered Fred. "This is the limit! Now, I'm in for it."

For a few moments he crouched close to the boathouse nearly paralyzed with fright. His consternation increased when a sound over by the fence indicated that the policeman was trying to mount that barrier.

Now, Fred's courage returned, or enough of it to enable him to try to escape. Bending low, he turned and ran swiftly, almost noiselessly. His speed astonished even himself. He gained the corner of the fence by which he had entered the yard. Taking a firm hold, he swung himself around the fence and out of sight just as the policeman's head showed over the top of it.

Fortunately for the fugitive, the policeman, in climbing the fence, had made noise enough to drown the slight sounds produced by Ripley's frenzied flight.

His first thought being of burglars, the policeman drew his revolver as soon as his feet touched the ground inside the yard. With his left hand he held an electric pocket flash lamp, whose rays he flashed into the dark places.

Fred did not stop until he found himself safely within the grounds of his home. There he halted, fanning himself with his hat and taking long breaths. If discovered by anyone he could easily claim that he had found the night too hot to sleep inside and had come outdoors for air.

The next morning, about ten o'clock, Hiram Driggs, who had already been visited by Dick & Co., on their way to Katson's Hill, was called upon by Policeman Curtis of the Gridley force. Curtis, being off duty, was in citizen's clothes.

"Did you miss anything out of the plant this morning, Mr. Driggs?" inquired the guardian of life and property.

"Nothing that I know of," Driggs answered. "Why?"

"I thought I heard burglars about here last night, while on duty," the policeman explained. "I came up over the fence, and looked about the place, but couldn't find anything. Yes, I did, too, though. I'll talk about that in a moment. You see, I went off duty at one o'clock this morning, so I didn't spend much time here. I'm on house reserve duty to-day. Now, for what I found here. I didn't find a living soul in the yard, but on the ground, near one of the open sheds, I came upon a chisel wrapped in a newspaper. I hid it, then, but I'll show it to you now. Maybe it belongs to the shop, and if so I've no business with it. But, if you don't recognize the chisel as yours, then I'll take it up to the station house and turn it over to the chief."

"After all that stretch o' talk," smiled Driggs, "you ought to show me a whole case full of chisels."

"I hid it over here," Curtis explained, going over to one of the open sheds. "I tucked it in under this packing case. Here it is, now, just where I left it. Do you recognize it as yours?"

From the newspaper wrapping Driggs took the small but keen-edged implement. He regarded it curiously. Then he turned the paper over slowly.

"Do you recognize it?" persisted the policeman.

"Mebbe," said Driggs. "I guess you can leave it here. But, in case any question should come up about it in the future, suppose you write your autograph on the handle of the chisel."

Driggs passed over his fountain pen, the policeman obligingly obeying the request for his signature on the wood.

"Now, just for good measure, write your name across the top of the newspaper, too," Driggs proposed. Curtis did so.

"You seem to attach a good deal of importance to this find," hinted the policeman.

"Mebbe," assented Driggs indifferently. "Mebbe not. But you and I will both know this paper and the chisel again, if we see it, won't we?"

"We ought to," nodded the policeman. "But you don't consider the matter as important enough, then, to interest the police?"

"I wouldn't think o' bothering the police force about a trifling little matter like this," returned Driggs carelessly.

Just as soon, however, as the policeman had gone, Driggs darted into his private office. There he took up the telephone receiver and asked for Lawyer Ripley's residence number.

"Is Master Fred at home!" he inquired, when a servant of the Ripley household answered the telephone. Fred was at home, the servant replied, and then summoned Fred to the telephone.

"Well, who is it, and what is it?" asked Fred crossly.

"Hiram Driggs," responded the boat builder dryly. "That's 'who is it.' As to 'what is it,' if you'll take a quick run over to my office at the boatyard I'll tell you the rest of it."

"What on earth can you want to see me about?" Fred demanded.

Even over the wire, the note of dismay in Ripley's voice was plainly evident to Driggs, who chuckled.

"I can't tell you, over the wire, all that I want to see you about," Driggs replied. "You'd better come over here at once. I can promise you that it's something interesting."

"I—I don't believe I can come over to-day," Fred answered hesitatingly. "The weather is too hot."

"Mebbe the weather will get hotter, if you don't come," Hiram Driggs responded calmly.

"That's a joke, eh?" queried Fred. "Ha, ha, ha!"

"Depends upon the feller's sense of humor," Driggs declared. "Well, you're coming over, aren't you?"

"Ye-es, I'll come," Fred assented falteringly, for his guilty conscience made a coward of him. "You're a fine fellow, Mr. Driggs, and I'm glad to oblige anyone like you. I'll be right over."

"Thanks, ever so much, for the compliment," drawled Driggs in his most genial tone. "Such a compliment is especially appreciated when it comes from a young gentleman of your stripe. Good-bye."

That word "stripe" caused Fred Ripley to have a disagreeable chill. He remembered that "stripes" are an important part of the design on a convict's suit of state-furnished clothes.

"But he needn't think he can prove anything against me," Fred muttered to himself, as he started down the street. "Of course, I know I lost that chisel last night, and Driggs may have found it in his boatyard. But he can't prove that the chisel belongs to me, or to our house. There are lots more chisels just like that one. If Driggs tries to bluff me he'll find that I'm altogether too cool for him!"

Nevertheless, it was an anxious young man who walked into the boat builder's office a few minutes later. Hiram Driggs, smiling broadly, held out his hand, which Fred took.

"Sorry I wasn't here when you called last night," said Driggs affably.

"I don't know what you mean," Fred rejoined promptly. "I didn't call at your house last night."

"Oh, no," Driggs replied. "I meant when you called here."

"I didn't call here, either."

"Ever see this before?" asked Driggs, holding up the chisel.

"Never," lied Fred.

"That's curious," said Driggs musingly. "Officer Curtis, the man on this beat, found the chisel here, and it was wrapped up in part of this newspaper."

Driggs brought forth from one of the drawers of his desk the newspaper in question.

"What has that scrap of paper to do with it?" asked Fred, speaking as coolly as he could.

"Why," explained Driggs, turning the paper over, "here's the mail sticker on this side, with your father's printed name and address pasted on it just as it came through the post-office."

Fred gasped audibly this time. Driggs surveyed his face with a keen, tantalizing gaze.

"Mebbe 'twas your father, then, who was in the yard last night, and who refused to answer the policeman's hail," suggested the boat builder. "I'd better go up to his office and show him these things and ask him, I guess."

"But I don't believe my father will know anything about it," spoke young Ripley huskily.

"Then your father will want to know something about it," Driggs went on. "He's a man of an inquiring turn of mind. Let's run up to his office together and ask him."

"No, no, no!" urged Fred, his face growing paler.

"Then why were you here last night?"

"I wasn't here," protested the boy.

"Perhaps I can tell you why you were here," Driggs went on, never losing his affable smile. "You don't like Dick Prescott, and you don't like his boy friends. Prescott has been too many for you on more than one occasion. But that is no reason why you should enter my yard after midnight. That is no reason why you should want to do harm to a war canoe or to any other property that happens to be in my yard. I really don't know whether you're to be blamed for being a glib liar, Ripley. You've never given yourself much practice at telling the truth, you know. But I have this to say: If anything happens to that canoe, or to anything else here, I shall make it my business to get hold of Officer Curtis, and he and I will drop in and show your father this chisel, and this piece of paper that it was wrapped in. As you will see, Curtis has written his signature on the paper and on the handle of the chisel, so that he may identify them again at any time. Now, Ripley, I won't look for you to pay this yard any more visits except in a proper way and during regular business hours. Good morning!"

Hiram Driggs held out his hand as smilingly as ever, and Fred took it in a flabby grasp, feeling as though he were going to faint. Then without a word Ripley slunk out of the office, while Driggs gazed after him still smiling.

"The mean scoundrel!" panted Fred, as he hurried away, his knees trembling under him. "There isn't a meaner fellow in town than Hiram Driggs, and some day he'll go and tell my father just for spite. I know he will! Now, I've got to find some good way to account for that paper and chisel I'll put in the day thinking up my story."

V. BIRCH BARK MERCHANTS

Away over on Katson's Hill six high school boys, stripped to their undershirts and trousers, were toiling hard, drenched in perspiration and with hands considerably the worse for their hard work.

"What we're finding out is that it's one thing to strip bark for fun, and quite another thing to take it off in pieces large enough for a boat-builder," Dick Prescott declared.

"It isn't as fast work as I thought it would be, either," Dave Darrin declared, running his knife slowly down the trunk of a young birch.

"What we need is to bring a grindstone along with us," Tom Reade grunted, as he examined the edge of the largest blade in his jackknife. "I simply can't cut with this knife any more."

"I couldn't cut with a fine razor," declared Greg Holmes. "Look at the blisters on my hands from the cutting I've already done."

"Never mind your aches and pains," comforted Dave Darrin. "We're doing this to pay charges on our canoe, and Hiram Driggs has been mighty kind about the whole business. Think of the fun we're going to have when that canoe is launched; Now, fellows, Hiram Driggs has been mighty good to us, so I want to propose a plan for your approval. Whenever Driggs tells us that we've cut and hauled enough birch bark to pay him, then we must come out here and get still a few more loads, to pay him in good measure and show that we appreciate his kindness. Never mind how much our backs ache or our hands smart. Do you agree?"

"I'll fight any fellow in the crowd who doesn't agree," announced Tom Reade.

"You can't get up a fight with me on that score," retorted Greg. The others also quickly assented to Dave's plan.

By and by the youngsters halted for half an hour to eat the luncheons they had brought with them. Then they went at their work again.

At half-past three o'clock in the afternoon they tied up in bundles as much of the bark as each boy could carry, then started homeward.

"We ought to get home in time for supper," Dick declared hopefully.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening when they reached Greg's gate. The return was harder than they had expected. The road seemed to be twice as rough as it had been in the morning; they were utterly fagged, and discovered that even a load of birch bark can weigh a good deal under certain circumstances.

"Pile it up in the back of the yard," Greg suggested, "and we'll take it around to Mr. Driggs in the morning."

"Then we can hardly get back to Katson's Hill to-morrow, if we wait until the boatyard opens at eight o'clock," said Dave. "We ought to start for the hill before six, as we did this morning."

"We'll none of us feel like going to Katson's Hill early to-morrow morning," smiled Dick wearily. "Fellows, I guess we'll have to put in twice as much time, and go every other day. I'm afraid it's going to be a little too much for us to do everyday."

So this was agreed upon, though rather reluctantly, for Dick & Co. were anxious to repay Driggs at the earliest date.

Not one of the six boys appeared on Main Street that evening. Each of them, after eating supper, crept away to bed to ease the aching of his muscles in slumber.

The next morning they met at Greg's gate shortly after seven o'clock.

"The loads will seem lighter to-day," laughed Dick.

"But to-morrow—oh, me, oh, my!" groaned Reade, making a comical face.

"It's the 'White Man's Burden,' you know," Dick laughed.

"What is?" Dave inquired.

"Debt—and its consequences."

"My father has a horror of debt," Tom announced.

"Well, I guess the black side of debt shows only when one doesn't intend to make an effort to pay it," Dick suggested. "The whole business world, so we were taught at high school, rests on a foundation of debt. The man who doesn't contract debts bigger than he can pay, won't find much horror in owing money. We owe Hiram Driggs twenty dollars, or rather we're going to owe it. But the bark we're going to take in to him to-day is going to pay a part of that debt. A few days more of tramping, blistered hands and aching backs, and we'll be well out of debt and have the rest of the summer for that great old canoe!"

"Let's make an early start with the bark," proposed Tom. "I want to see if the stuff feels as heavy as it did late yesterday afternoon."

"Humph! My load doesn't seem to weigh more than seven ounces," Darrin declared, as he shouldered one of the piles of bark.

"Lighter than air this morning," quoth Tom, "and only a short haul at that."

When Hiram Driggs reached his boatyard at eight o'clock he found Dick & Co. waiting for him.

"Well, well, well, boys!" Mr. Driggs called cheerily. "So you didn't back out."

"Did you think we would, sir?" Dick inquired.

"No; I knew you boys wouldn't back out. And I don't believe you threw away any bark on the way home, just to lighten your loads."

Hiram went about the yard starting the day's work for his men, then came back to the boys.

"Now, just bring the bark over to the platform and we'll look it over and sort it," suggested the boat builder.

Dick & Co. carried their loads over to the platform, where they cut the lashings.

"We'll make three heaps of the stuff," Driggs proposed. "One heap will be the worthless stuff that has to be thrown away. Another heap will be for the pieces that are good but small; they'll do for patches. The third heap will be the whole, sound strips. Mebbe I'd better do all the sorting myself."

So the boys stood by, watching Driggs as he sorted the bundles of bark with the speed of a man who knows just what he wants. A quantity of the bark went on to the "worthless" heap, yet there was a goodly amount in each of the other piles by the time that the boat builder was through sorting it.

"You've done first rate, boys," he announced at last. "Is there much more of that bark on Katson's Hill?"

"We ought to be able to bring in fifty times as much bark as we've brought already," Dick answered.

"I wish you would," Driggs retorted.

"And give up the whole of our summer vacation?" Danny Grin asked anxiously.

"Well, there is that side to it, after all," Driggs admitted quickly. "It must be a tough job on your backs, too. But, boys, I wouldn't mind having a lot of this stuff, for birch bark canoes are coming into favor again. The only trouble is that birch bark is hard to get, these days, and costs a lot to boot. So it makes birchbark canoes come pretty high. At the same time, there are plenty of wealthy folks who would pay me well for a birch-bark canoe. Now, I know that you boys, owning a canoe that will soon be in the water, won't be anxious to give up your whole summer to doing jobs for me. But couldn't you bring in a lot more bark if you had a team of horses and a good-sized wagon?"

"Of course we could," Dick nodded. "But we haven't any horses or a wagon."

"I was thinking," Driggs went on slowly. "I can spare my gray team and the big green wagon. Any of you boys know how to drive?"

"All of us do," Dick answered, "though I guess Tom could handle a team better than any of the rest of us."

"Then suppose you take my team out at six o'clock to-morrow morning?" Driggs suggested. "I'll have to charge you four dollars a day for it, but I'll take it in bark as payment. With the wagon you'll be able to bring in a lot more bark than you could without a wagon."

"It's a fine idea, sir," glowed Dick, "and you're mighty kind to us."

"Not especially kind," smiled the boat builder. "I can use a lot of this bark in my business, and I'm glad to get it on as reasonable a basis as you boys can bring it to me. You see, it's lucky that Katson's Hill is wild and distant land. If we had a land owner to deal with he'd make us pay high for the privilege of stripping the bark."

"But why couldn't you send your own workmen out to cut the bark?" Dick asked. "They've as much right on Katson's Hill as we have."

"Oh, yes; I could do that," Driggs assented. "And I could make a little more money that way, mebbe. But would it be square business, after you young men have trusted me with your business secret as to where bark can be had for nothing?"

That was a ruggedly honest way of putting it that impressed Dick & Co.

"I'll tell you what you—might do, Mr. Driggs," hinted Tom Reade. "You might lend us a grindstone, if you have one to spare. Then we can sharpen our knives right on the spot and cut bark faster."

"You can have the grindstone," Driggs assented. "And I'll do better than that. I can spare half a dozen knives from the shop that are better than anything you carry in your pockets. Oh, we'll rush this business along fast."

Six utterly happy high school boys reported at Hiram Driggs' stable at six o'clock the next morning. They harnessed the horses, put the grindstone in the wagon and all climbed aboard. Two seats held them all, and there was room for a load of bark, besides, several times as large as Dick & Co. could carry on their backs.

Work went lightly that day! The shop knives cut far better than pocket knives could do, and the stone was at hand for sharpening. Six laughing and not very tired boys piled aboard the wagon that afternoon, with what looked like a "mountain" of prime birch bark roped on.

For seven more working days Dick & Co. toiled faithfully, at the end of which time they discovered that they had about "cleaned" Katson's Hill of all the really desirable bark.

"Your canoe will be dry enough to launch in the morning," said Driggs, as he received the last load at his stable. "Come down any time after eight o'clock and we'll put it in the water."

Were Dick & Co. on hand the next morning?

Dan Dalzell was the last of the six boys to reach post outside the locked gate of the yard, and he was there no later than twenty-one minutes past seven.

VI. MEETING THE FATE OF GREENHORNS

At five minutes before eight Hiram Driggs arrived, keys in hand.

"I see you're on time," he smiled, unlocking the gate and throwing it open. "Now come in and we'll run your canoe out on the river float."

Even in the dim light of the boathouse Dick & Co. could see the sides of the canoe glisten with their coating of pitch and oil that lay outside the bark. The war canoe looked like a bran-new craft!

"Do you like her?" queried Driggs, with a smile of pride in the work of his yard.

"Like her?" echoed Dick, a choking feeling in his throat. "Mr. Driggs, we can't talk—yet!"

"Get hold," ordered the boat builder. "Carry her gently."

Gently? Dick & Co. lifted their beloved treasure as though the canoe carried a cargo of eggs.

Out into the morning sun they carried her, letting her down with the stern right at the water's edge.

"O-o-o-oh!" It would be hard to say which one of Dick & Co. started that murmur of intense admiration.

"Now, if you can take your eyes off that canoe long enough," proposed Driggs, after all hands, the builder included, had feasted their eyes for a few minutes upon the canoe, "come into the office and we'll attend to a little business."

Not quite comprehending, the high school boys followed Driggs, who seated himself at his desk, picking up a sheet of paper.

"Prescott, I take it you're the business manager of this crowd," the boat builder went on. "Now, look over these figures with me, and see if everything is straight. Here are the different loads of bark you've brought in. I figure them up at $122.60. See if you make it the same?"

"Of course I do," nodded Dick, not even looking at the figures.

"Careless of you, not to watch another man's figuring," remarked Hiram Driggs. "Now, then, the bark you've brought in comes to just what I've stated. Against that is a charge for the team and wagon, eight days at four dollars a day—thirty-two dollars. Twenty dollars for fixing your canoe. Total charges, fifty-two dollars. Balance due you for bark, seventy dollars and sixty cents. That's straight, isn't it?"

"I—I don't understand," faltered Dick Prescott.

"Then see if this will help you to understand," proposed Driggs, drawing a roll of bills from his pocket and laying down the money. Here you are, seventy dollars and sixty cents."

"But we didn't propose to sell you any bark," Dick protested. "All we expected to do was to bring you in good measure to pay you for all your kindness to us."

"Kindness to you boys?" demanded Driggs, his shrewd eyes twinkling. "I hope I may go through life being as profitably kind to others. Boys, the bark you've sold me will enable me to make up several canoes at a fine, fat profit. Take your pay for the goods you've delivered!"

Dick glanced at his chums, who looked rather dumbfounded. Then he picked up the bills with an uneasy feeling.

"Thank you, then," young Prescott continued. "But there is one little point overlooked, Mr. Driggs. You did the canoe for us at cost, though your price to any other customer would have been thirty dollars."

"Oh, we'll let it go at that," Driggs suggested readily. "I'm coming out finely on the deal."

"We won't let it go at that, if you please, sir," Dick Prescott retorted firmly.

Dick placed a ten dollar bill on the desk, adding:

"That makes the full thirty dollars for the repairing of the canoe."

"I don't want to take it," said Driggs gruffly.

"Then we won't take any of this money for the bark," insisted Dick, putting the rest of the money back on the table.

"If you corner me like that," muttered Driggs, "I'll have to take your ten dollars. Now put the rest of the money back in your pocket, and divide it among your crowd whenever you're ready. Wait a minute until I make out a receipt for repairing the canoe. I'll put the receipt in your name, Prescott."

Driggs wrote rapidly, then reached for another paper.

"And now," he laughed, "since you're so mighty particular about being exact in business, you may as well sign a receipt for the money paid you for the bark."

Signatures were quickly given.

"Now, I reckon you boys want to get out to your canoe," the builder hinted.

"Yes, but we can't take Dick with us," Tom declared. "Not with all that money belonging to the company in his pocket. Dick, before you step into the canoe you'd better leave the money with Mr. Driggs, if he'll oblige us by taking care of it."

Driggs dropped the money in an envelope, putting the latter in his safe.

"Call and get it when you're going away," he said.

"Some day, when we recover, Mr. Driggs," said Dick earnestly, "we're going to come in and try to thank you as we should."

"If you do," retorted the boat builder gruffly, "I'll throw you all out. Our present business deal is completed, and the papers all signed. Git!"

Driggs followed them out to show them how to launch the canoe with the least trouble.

"Have any of you boys ever handled a paddle before?" inquired Hiram Driggs.

"Oh, yes; in small cedar canoes," Dave answered.

"All of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you ought to get along all right in this craft. But be careful at first, and don't try any frolicking when you're aboard. Remember, a canoe isn't a craft that can be handled with roughness. Don't anyone try to 'rock the boat,' either. In a canoe everyone has to sit steadily and attend strictly to business."

"A war canoe! Isn't it great?" chuckled Dan, as he started to help himself to a seat.

But Tom grabbed him by the coat collar, pulling him back.

"First of all, Danny Grin, shed that coat. Then ask Dick which seat you're going to have. He's the big chief of our tribe of Indians."

"Better all of you leave your coats here," suggested Driggs. "You can get 'em when you come back. And you can keep the canoe here without charge, so you'll have a safe place for it. Some fellows, you know, might envy you so that they might try to destroy the canoe if you left it in a place that isn't locked up at night."

When the boys were ready, in their shirt sleeves, Dick assigned Dave Darrin to the bow seat. The others were placed, while Prescott himself took the stern seat, from which the steering paddle must be wielded.

"All ready, everyone," Dick called. "Dave, you set the stroke, and give us a slow, easy one. We mustn't do any swift paddling until we've had a good deal of practice. Shove off, Dave."

Darrin pushed his paddle against the float, Dick doing likewise at the stern. Large as it was, the canoe glided smoothly across the water.

"Now, give us the slow stroke, Dave!" Dick called.

Soon the others caught the trick of paddling in unison. Each had his own side of the craft on which to paddle. Dick, alone, as steersman, paddled on either side at will, according as he wished to guide the boat.

"You're doing finely," called Hiram Driggs.

"Let's hit up the speed a bit," urged Dan Dalzell.

"We won't be in too big a hurry about that," Dick counseled. "Let us get the knack of this thing by degrees."

"Whee! When we do get to going fast I'll wager there is a lot of fine old speed in this birch-bark tub!" chuckled Tom Reade.

Dick now headed the canoe up the river. For half a mile or more they glided along on a nearly straight course.

To say that these Gridley high school boys were happy would be putting it rather mildly. There was exhilaration in every move of this noble sport. Nor was it at all like work. The canoe seemed to require but very little power to send her skimming over the water.

At last Dick guided the canoe in an easy, graceful turn, heading down the river once more.

"Now, you can try just a little faster stroke, Dave," Dick suggested. "And make it just a bit heavier on the stroke, fellows, but don't imagine that we're going to try any racing speed."

"Hurrah!"

"Zip!"

"Wow!"

It was great sport! Just the small increase in the stroke sent the handsome big war canoe fairly spinning down the river.

"I never dreamed it would be like this!" cried Dave Darrin, in ecstasy. "Fellows, I don't believe there is any fun in the world equal to canoeing in a real canoe."

"It beats all the little cedar contraptions that some folks call canoes!" Tom Reade declared.

"I am almost beginning to think," announced Danny Grin, "that I'd rather go on canoeing than go home for my dinner."

"That idea would last until about half-past twelve," chuckled Reade. "This is glorious fun, all right, but dinner has its place, too. As for me, I want to get my dinner strictly on time."

"Glutton!" taunted Greg Holmes.

"Don't you believe it," Reade retorted. "I want my dinner right on time so that I can get back for a longer afternoon in the canoe."

"Fellows," announced Dave Darrin solemnly, "we've got to form a canoe club."

"Humph!" retorted Greg Holmes. "We don't want to belong to any club where the other fellows have only the fourteen or sixteen foot cedar canoes."

"We don't have to," Dave explained. "We'll limit the membership to those who own war canoes like this one. In other words, we'll be the whole club."

"What's the need of our forming a club?" asked Greg Holmes. "We're as good as being a club already. We're always together in everything, aren't we?"

"Still, it won't do any harm to have a regular club name for the summer," Dick Prescott suggested.

"What would we call the club?" asked Hazelton.

"Why not call it the Gridley High School Canoe Club?" Dick demanded.

"Best name possible," Tom agreed.

"Some of the other high school fellows might get sore at us, though," Tom hinted. "They might say we had no right to take the high school name."

"We won't take it for ourselves only," Dick smiled. "We'll keep the club membership open to any set of six fellows who will own and run a war canoe. We'll keep the membership as open as possible to the high school fellows."

"Humph! And then Fred Ripley, Bert Dodge and a few others with plenty of cash would get a canoe and insist on coming in and spoiling the club."

"They might," Dick assented, "but I don't believe they would. Fred Ripley, Bert Dodge and a few others of their kind in the Gridley High School wouldn't spend five cents to join anything we're in."

Toot! toot! sounded a whistle shrilly behind them.

Dick turned carefully to glance at the bend above them.

"Steam launch, with an excursion party," he informed the others. "I think I see Laura Bentley and Belle Meade in the bow waving handkerchiefs at us."

Dan Dalzell turned abruptly around. Harry Hazelton did the same.

"Look out!" cried Greg, as he shifted swiftly to steady the craft.

Just then Tom Reade turned, too. His added weight sent the canoe careening. There was a quick scramble to right the craft.

Flop! The canoe's port rail was under water. She filled and sank, carrying a lot of excited high school boys down at the same time.

VII. "DANNY GRIN" IS SILENT

Dick Prescott sank into the water not more than two or three feet. Then his head showed above the surface of the river. He struck out vigorously, looking about him.

"The canoe is done for!" he gasped.

Too-oot! too-oot! too-oot! The steam launch was now speeding to the scene, its whistle screeching at a rate calculated to inform everyone in Gridley of another river disaster.

Up came Greg, then Dave. Tom Reade's head appeared down stream. Harry Hazelton bobbed up not six feet from Dick. Hazelton blew out a mouthful of water, then called:

"Everyone up, Dick?"

"All but Dan."

"What——"

"I guess he's all right. Danny Grin is a good swimmer, you know."

Half a dozen river craft were now heading their way, but the launch was the only power boat in sight.

Five members of Dick & Co. now got close together.

"We've got to go down after Danny Grin," Reade declared. "You fellows watch, and I'll get as close to bottom as I can."

Tom sank. To the anxious boys he seemed to be gone for an age. He came up alone.

"Did you see Dan?" Dick faltered. "Not a glimpse of him," returned Tom despairingly.

"See the canoe?"

"No."

"Then you couldn't have gone down in the right place," Dick argued.

"I'll try it, fellows!" exclaimed Darrin. Down went Dave. He soon came up, treading water. As soon as he had blown out a mouthful of water he exclaimed:

"I found Dan, but I couldn't stay under long enough. He went down with the canoe. He's lying in it now."

"Look out, there! We'll pick you up," called a voice from the launch, which now darted toward the boys. A bell for half speed, then another for "stop" sounded, and the hull of the launch divided the frightened swimmers.

"Let me get aboard!" cried Dick, taking a few lusty over-hand strokes.

Willing hands hauled him into the launch at the bow, while girls' cries and anxious questions filled the air.

"What's the matter?"

"Who——"

But Dick waited to answer no one. Standing in the bow of the launch, he pointed his hands, then dived into the river.

While he was below the surface of the water the other canoeists swam alongside, helping themselves aboard.

"Oh, Dave!" cried Laura Bentley. "What's wrong?"

"Dan Dalzell hasn't come up," Darrin choked. "Here, clear the way. I'm going down after Dick."

He was gone like a flash. Seconds ticked by while a score of pale faces watched over the side of the launch.

Then, at last, up shot Dave. He was followed almost instantly by Dick, his arms wrapped around the motionless form of Dan Dalzell.

"Get close and we'll haul you in!" called Tom Reade, a boat-hook in his hand.

"Is Dan drowned!" demanded a dozen voices.

"Don't ask questions now!" cried Tom Reade impatiently, without looking about him. "Keep quiet! It's a time for work."

Abashed, the questioners became silent. Tom caught the boat-hook through the collar of Dan's flannel shirt. With the aid of the launch's helmsman Reade drew Dan in and got him aboard. Young Dalzell's eyes were closed, nor did he speak.

Then Dick and Dave were pulled aboard the launch.

"Dan didn't seem to be able to free himself," Darrin explained breathlessly. "His foot was wedged under a cleat in the canoe."

"Carry Dan aft," ordered Dick, while he was still clambering over the rail. "Lay him face down."

Then, drenched as he was, Dick hastened aft, where he directed others how to pat Dan on the back and to work his arms.

"We've got to get that water off his lungs," Dick explained. "Don't stop working for a moment. I wish we had a barrel to roll him on!"

"We will have soon," replied the launch's helmsman, rushing back to his post and ringing the bell. Thus recalled to his post, the engineer turned on the speed.

The craft made swiftly for Hiram Driggs' float. A few moments later it ran alongside.

Warned by the whistle, Driggs and two of his workmen came running out to the float.

"Get a barrel as quickly as you can!" shouted young Prescott.

By the time Dalzell had been hustled ashore the barrel was in readiness. Dan received an energetic rolling. Three or four little gushes of water issued from his mouth.

"Keep up the good work," ordered Dick feverishly. "We'll bring him around soon."

When they saw that no more water was coming from Dalzell's mouth the workers placed him in a sitting position, then began to pump-handle his arms vigorously.

A tremor ran through the body of Danny Grin.

"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "He's going to open his eyes!"

This Dan did a few moments later. "Keep on working his arms," commanded Prescott.

"Quit!" begged Dalzell in a faint whisper. "You're hurting me."

"Good enough!" chuckled Dick. "Keep on at his arms until he can talk a whole lot more."

"But isn't it cruel?" asked a girl.

"No," rejoined Tom Reade, turning to her. "Did you ever bring a drowning man to?"

"Never, of course."

"Then let our Dick have his way. He generally knows what he's about. No rudeness intended you understand," Reade added, smiling.

"This lad's all right, now," declared Hiram Driggs. "Help him to his feet and walk him about a bit until he gets the whole trick of breathing again. Dalzell, didn't you know any better than to try to swallow the whole river and ruin my business?"

A faint grin parted Dan's lips.

"Oh, I'm so thankful," sighed Laura Bentley. "Dick, I was afraid there would be but five of you left when I saw Dan being hoisted aboard!"

Soon Dalzell was able to laugh nervously. Then a scowl darkened his face.

"I'm the prize idiot of Gridley!" he muttered faintly.

"What's the matter now?" Dave Darrin demanded.

"The canoe is lost, and it's all my fault," moaned Dalzell. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"Bother the canoe!" cried Dick impatiently. "We're lucky enough that no lives have been lost."

"But I—I turned and upset the craft," wailed Dan.

"There were others of us," said Greg sheepishly. "If we had had the sense of babies none of us would have turned, and there wouldn't have been any accident."

"This is no time to talk about canoe etiquette," Prescott declared. "Let us be thankful that we're all here. We'll wait until Dan is himself again before we do any talking."

"I'm all right," protested Dan Dalzell.

"Yes; I believe you are," Driggs nodded.

"'T' any rate, you won't die now of that dose of river water."

"Party ready to come back aboard the launch?" called the helmsman.

"Oh, don't hurry us, just now!" appealed Laura Bentley, going over to him quietly. "We're all so interested and concerned in what is going on over here."

So the helmsman waited, grumbling quietly to himself.

Some twenty of the high school girls had chartered the launch for a morning ride up the river. Dainty enough the girls looked in their cool summer finery. They formed a bright picture as they stood grouped about Dick & Co. and the other male members of the party.

"You fellows can say all you want to," mumbled Dan, "but the canoe is gone for good and all! We won't have any more fun in it this summer."

"Was that what ailed you, Dan?" teased Darrin. "You felt so badly over the loss of the canoe that you tried to stay on the bottom of the river with it?"

"My foot was caught, and I couldn't get it loose," Dan explained. "I was trying to free myself, like mad, you may be sure, when all at once I didn't know anything more. You fellows must have had a job prying my foot loose."

"It was something of a job," Dick smiled, "especially as our time was so limited down there at the bottom with you. The river must be twenty feet deep at that point."

"All of that," affirmed Hiram Driggs.

By this time the high school girls had divided into little groups, each group with a member of Dick & Co. all to itself. The girls were engaging in that rather senseless though altogether charming hero worship so dear to the heart of the average schoolboy.

"What caused the accident?" inquired one girl.

"Gallantry," smiled Greg. "We were all so anxious to see you girls that we all turned at the same time. We made the canoe heel, and then it filled and went down. But you can't blame us, can you?"

"But you've lost your fine big canoe," cried Laura Bentley, looking as though her pretty eyes were about to fill with tears.

"Yes," Dick admitted, "and, of course, it's too bad. But a lot of other worse things might have happened, and I guess we'll get over our loss some way."

"But that canoe meant so much for your summer fun," Laura went on. "Oh, it's too bad!"

"Maybe the canoe isn't lost," suggested Hiram Driggs.

"What do you mean, Mr. Driggs?" cried Laura, turning to him quickly.

"Is there any way of bringing the canoe up again?" asked Belle Meade eagerly.

"There may be," Driggs replied quietly. "I'm going to have a try at it anyway."

"All aboard that are going back to the dock," called the helmsman of the launch, who was also her owner.

Laura turned upon him with flashing eyes.

"I don't believe there is anyone going," she said. "We wouldn't leave here anyway, while there's a chance that the high school boys can get their canoe back to the surface of the water. You needn't wait, Mr. Morton. When we're ready we can walk the rest of the way."

VIII. WHAT AN EXPERT CAN DO

"I don't say that I can surely raise the canoe," Mr. Driggs made haste to state, "or that it will be worth the trouble if we do raise it. That canoe may have sunk on river-bottom rocks, and she may be badly staved by this time. But I've sent one of my men to fire the scow engine, and I'm going out to see what can be done in the matter."

"And may we wait here?" asked Laura Bentley, full of eagerness.

"Certainly, young ladies."

"Oh, that's just fine of you, Mr. Driggs," cried Belle Meade.

Smoke soon began to pour out of the short funnel of the working engine on the boatyard scow. It was a clumsy-looking craft—a mere floating platform, with engine, propeller, tiller and a derrick arrangement, but it had done a lot of good work at and about the boatyard.

"You want to get aboard the scow now, boys," called Mr. Driggs. "If we do anything real out yonder I'll have need of some willing muscle."

"Can't some of the girls go, too?" called a feminine voice. "We're all dreadfully anxious, you know."

Hiram pursed up his mouth, as though reluctant. Then he proposed, grudgingly:

"A committee of two girls might go, if they're sure they'll keep out of the way when we're working. Just two! Which of the young ladies ought we to take, Mr. Prescott?"

"Why, I believe Miss Bentley and Miss Meade will be as satisfactory a committee as can be chosen," Dick smiled.

Some of the girls frowned their disappointment at being left out, but others clapped their hands. Laura and Belle stepped on the scow's platform.

"I wouldn't try to go, if I were you, Dan," urged. Dick, as young Dalzell stepped forward to board the scow.

"I'm all right," Dan insisted.

"Sure you're all right?" questioned Hiram Driggs, eyeing Danny Grin's wobbly figure.

"Of course I am," Dan protested, though he spoke rather weakly.

"Then there's a more important job for you," declared Mr. Driggs. "Stay here on the float with the rest of the young ladies, and explain to them just what you see us doing out yonder."

There was the sound of finality about the boat builder's voice, kindly as it was.

"Cast off," ordered Driggs, taking the tiller. "Tune up that engine and give us some headway."

Clara Marshall was thoughtful enough to run back and get a chair, which she brought down to the float and placed behind Dalzell.

"Sit down," she urged.

"Thank you," said Dan gratefully, "but I didn't need a chair."

Nevertheless the high school girls persuaded him to be seated.

"I—I wasn't drowned, you know," Dan protested as he sat down.

"No; but you got a little water into your lungs," responded one of the girls. "I heard Mr. Driggs tell Dick Prescott that, as nearly as they could guess, you opened your mouth a trifle just before Dick and Dave reached you and freed you from that awful trap. Mr. Driggs said that if you had been under water two minutes longer there would have been a different story to tell."

"I wonder how long I was under water?" mused Dan.

"Long enough to drown, Danny Grin," replied Clara Marshall gravely.

Meanwhile the scow was making slow headway out into the river and slightly up stream.

"Dick, don't you think this canoeing is going to prove too dangerous a sport for you boys?" asked Laura, regarding him with anxious eyes.

"Not when we get so that we know how to behave ourselves in a canoe, Laura," young Prescott answered.

"Yet, no matter how skilful you become, some unexpected accident may happen at any moment," she urged.

"You wouldn't have us be mollycoddles, would you?" asked Dick in surprise.

"Certainly not," replied Laura with emphasis.

"Yet you would advise us to avoid everything that may have some touch of danger in it."

"I wouldn't advise that, either," Laura contended with sweet seriousness. "But——"

"You'd like to see us play football some day, wouldn't you?"

"I certainly hope you'll make the high school eleven."

"Football is undoubtedly more dangerous than canoeing," Dick claimed.

"It seems too bad that boys' best sports should be so dangerous, doesn't it?" questioned young Miss Bentley.

"I can't agree with you," Dick answered quietly. "It takes danger, and the ability to meet it, to form a boy's character into a man's."

"Then you believe in being foolhardy, as a matter of training?" asked Laura, with a swift flash of her eyes.

"By no means," Prescott rejoined. "Foolhardy means just what the word implies, and only a fool will be foolhardy. If we had been trying to upset the canoe, as a matter of sport, that would have been the work of young fools."

It was not difficult to locate the spot where the canoe had gone down. The river's current was not swift, and the paddles now floated not very far below the spot where the cherished craft of Dick & Co. had gone down.

"Do you want the services of some expert divers, Mr. Driggs?" asked Dave, turning from a brief chat with Belle Meade.

"Not you boys," retorted the boat builder. "You youngsters have been fooling enough with the river bottom for one day."

"Then how do you expect to get hold of the canoe, sir?" asked Tom Reade.

"We'll grapple with tackle," replied Driggs, going toward an equipment box that stood on the forward end of the scow. "We'll use the same kind of tackle that we've sometimes dragged the bottom with when looking for drowned people."

Laura Bentley slivered slightly at his words. Driggs' keen eyes noted the fact, and thereafter he was careful not to mention drowned people in her hearing.

The tackle was soon rigged. Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, who possessed the keenest interest in things mechanical, aided the boat builder under his direction.

Back and forth over the spot the scow moved, while the grapples were frequently shifted and recast.

"Stop the engine," called Driggs. "We've hooked into something!"

Laura turned somewhat pale for a moment; Belle, too, looked uneasy. The same thought had crossed both girls' minds. What if the tackle had caught the body of some drowned man?

"We'll shift about here a bit," Driggs proposed, nodding to the engineer to stand by ready to stop or start the engine on quick signal.

Before long the grappling hook of another line was caught;

"The two lines are about twelve feet apart," Driggs announced. "My idea is that we've caught onto two cross braces of the canoe. If so we'll have it up in a jiffy."

Both lines were now made fast to the derrick, in such a way that there would be an even haul on both lines. Belting was now connected between the engine and a windlass.

"Haul away, very slowly," Driggs ordered.

Up came the lines, an inch at a time. Belle and Laura could not resist the temptation to go to the edge of the scow and peer over.

"I see something coming up," cried Belle at last.

"It's the canoe," said Tom Reade, trying to speak carelessly, though there was a ring of exultation in his voice.

Nearer and nearer to the surface of the water came the canoe.

"Now, watch for my hand signal all the time," called Driggs. "I don't want to get the middle part of the canoe more than an inch above the surface."

When the point of the canoe's prow rose above the surface of the water a cheer went up from the scow that carried the news instantly back to the landing float.

Danny Grin stood up, waving his hat and cheering hoarsely, while the girls who surrounded him waved handkerchiefs and parasols.

Then the gunwale appeared just above water along the whole length.

"It will be a hard job to bail her out now," Dave declared.

"Not so hard that it will worry you any," Driggs smiled.

He dragged a pump over, allowing its flexible pipe to rest down into the water in the canoe.

"Now, some of you youngsters get hold of the pump handles," Driggs ordered.

Five high school boys got hold with a will. Gradually, as the water was emptied out of her the canoe rose higher and higher in the water.

There was no cheering, now, from the boys on the scow. They were using all their breath working the pump, while Driggs carefully directed the bottom of the flexible tubing.

"There!" declared Driggs at last. "Barring a little moisture, your canoe is as dry as ever it was, boys. I can't see a sign of a leak anywhere, either. But don't make a practice of tipping it over every day, for I can't afford to leave my work to help you out. There's your canoe, and she's all right."

Dick got hold of the painter at the bow, while Driggs released the grappling tackle.

What a cheer went up from the scow, and what a busy scene there was on the float as the young women jumped up and down in their glee over the good fortune of Dick & Co.

"Now, we'll cruise down and get the paddles," Driggs proposed.

"As soon as we pick up a couple of them, Dick and I can take the canoe and get the rest," Dave suggested.

"You cannot, while the young ladies are with us," Hiram Driggs contradicted. "Do you want to scare them to death by having another upset?"

Laura shot a grateful glance at kindly Hiram Driggs. The scow moved forward, cruising among the paddles until all of them had been recovered.

"Now, Mr. Driggs, won't you stop a moment?" asked young Prescott. "It will be a bit humiliating to be towed into dock. Wait, and let us get into the canoe. We'd rather take it ashore under our own power."

Laura hoped Hiram Driggs would veto the idea, but he didn't.

The canoe was brought alongside, and five boys stepped carefully into it, seating themselves.

"Room for one young lady in here, if we can find a fair way of drawing lots between them," suggested Dick playfully.

"They won't step into the canoe, just now, if I can prevent them," Driggs declared flatly. "You boys want just a few minutes' more practice at your new game before you risk the lives of these girls."

"You're right, I'm afraid, Mr. Driggs," Dick Prescott admitted with a smile. "But, before long, we hope to take out as many of the high school girls as care to step into this fine old war canoe."

"I hope you won't forget that," Belle Meade flashed at him smilingly.

"We won't," Dave promised her. "And you and Laura shall have the first invitation."

"I shall be ready," Laura replied, "just as soon as you boys feel that you can take proper care of us in the canoe."

"You'll have to do your own share of taking care," Tom Reade responded. "About all a passenger has to learn in a canoe is to take a seat right in the middle of the canoe, and to keep to that place without moving about."

Dick & Co., minus Danny Grin, now paddled off, reaching the float some moments before the scow got in.

"Young ladies," said Dick, as he stepped to the float, "I don't know how many of you will care about going out in our canoe, but we wish to invite all who would like it to try a trip within the next few days. Four boys and two girls can go out at a time, and in case of mishap that would leave two good swimmers to look after each girl. We shall be glad if you will permit us to invite you in couples."

Despite the accident of the morning the invitation was greeted with enthusiasm.

IX. DICK TREMBLES AT HIS NERVE

Hiram Driggs refused to accept any money for his trouble in raising the canoe.

"I won't charge you anything, unless upsetting your craft becomes a troublesome habit," the boat builder declared. "Remember, I'm a big winner on our birch bark trade."

Within the next four days all of the girls invited had been able to take a trip up the river and back.

By this time Dick & Co. had fully acquired the mastery of their canoe. They had had no more upsets, for "Big Chief Prescott," of this new Gridley tribe of young Indians, had succeeded in putting through some rules governing their conduct when the chums were out in their canoe. One of these rules was that no one should change his position in the craft except the steersman at the stern. Others would not look about at a hail unless informed by the steersman that they might do so.

Not by any means did Dick do all the steering of the craft. Each of his chums had a frequent turn at it, and at the other positions in the canoe, until all were expert at any part of the work.

"But there is one big drawback about having this canoe," Greg remarked one day.

"What's that?" asked Dave.

"There are no canoes to race with."

"There are up at Lake Pleasant," Dick replied.

"But we can't take the canoe up there," Tom Reade objected. "It's twenty-four miles from Gridley."

"Couldn't we walk there and carry the canoe on our shoulders?" suggested Dave.

While they were discussing this, the canoe lay on the float., whence they were soon to take it into the boathouse.

"We can try it now," suggested Dick.

Getting a good hold, Dick & Co. raised the war canoe to their several shoulders. They found they could accomplish the feat, though it wasn't an easy one.

"We'll have to give up that idea," Tom remarked rather mournfully. "Without a doubt we could carry the canoe to Lake Pleasant, if we had time enough. But I don't believe we could make five miles a day with it. So to get the canoe up to Lake Pleasant on our shoulders, and then back again would take over two weeks."

Dick was unusually thoughtful as the boys strolled from Driggs' yard up to Main Street. Lake Pleasant was a fine place to visit in summer. He knew that, for he had been there on one occasion.

On one side of the lake were two hotels, each with roomy recreation grounds, with piers and plenty of boats. On this same side there were four or five boarding houses for people of more moderate means.

Boating was the one great pastime at Lake Pleasant. Indeed, a canoe club had been started there by young men of means, and the boathouse stood at the water's edge on the Hotel Pleasant grounds.

Then, too, there may have been another reason for Dick's desire to go to Lake Pleasant. The following week Dr. and Mrs. Bentley were going to take charge of a party of Gridley high school girls, at Lake Pleasant, and Laura and Belle Meade would be of the number.

"We'd cut a fine dash at Lake Pleasant," Dave Darrin laughed. "Which hotel would we honor with our patronage? Terms, from fourteen to twenty-five dollars a week. We've about enough money to stay at one of the hotels for about two hours, or at a boarding house for about nine hours. When shall we start—and how shall we get there with our canoe?"

"We have about fifty dollars in our treasury, from the birch bark business," Dick mused aloud, "but that won't help us any, will it?"

"Why, how much would it cost to have the canoe taken up there on a wagon Danny Grin asked.

"Not less than fifteen dollars each way," Dick replied.

"We'll give it up," said Tom. "There's nothing in the Lake Pleasant idea for us."

"I hadn't any idea we could do anything else but give it up," Dave observed, though he spoke rather gloomily.

Dick was still thinking hard, though he could think of no plan that would enable them to make a trip to Lake Pleasant and remain there for some days.

It was a Saturday afternoon. It had been a hot day, yet out on the water, busy with their sport, and acquiring a deep coating of sunburn, the boys had not noticed the heat especially. Now they mopped their faces as they strolled almost listlessly along the street.

"I want to go to Lake Pleasant," grumbled Danny Grin.

"Going to-night, or to-morrow morning?" teased Greg.

"If I had an automobile I'd start after supper," Dalzell informed them.

"But not having a car you'll wait till you're grown up and have begun to earn money of your own," laughed Harry Hazelton.

"What do you say, Dick?" asked Dan Dalzell anxiously.

"I say that I'm going to put in a few days or a fortnight at Lake Pleasant if I can possibly find the way," Dick retorted, with a sudden energy that was quite out of keeping with the heat of the afternoon.

"Hurray!" from Danny Grin.

"That's what I call the right talk," added Darrin.

"How will the rest of us get along with the canoe while you're gone?" questioned Tom Reade.

"You don't suppose I'd go to Lake Pleasant without the rest of the crowd?" Dick retorted rather scornfully.

"Then you're going to take us all with you, and the canoe, too?" Tom demanded, betraying more interest.

"If I can find the way to do it, or if any of you fellows can," was young Prescott's answer.

That started another eager volley of talk. Yet soon all of them save Dick looked quite hopeless.

The railroad ran only within eight miles of the lake. From the railway station the rest of the journey was usually made by automobile stages, while baggage went up on automobile trucks. Charges were high on this automobile line up into the hills. To send the canoe by rail, and then transfer it to an automobile truck would cost more than to transport it direct from Gridley to the lake by wagon.

"We can talk about it all we want," sighed Tom, "but I don't see the telephone poles on the golden road to Lake Pleasant."

"We've got to find the way if we can," Dick retorted firmly. "Let's all set about it at once."

"When do we start?" teased Tom.

"Monday morning early," laughed Dave. "And this is late Saturday afternoon."

Dan Dalzell was not in his usually jovial spirits. His heart was as much set on going as was Dick's, but Dan now felt that the pleasure jaunt was simply impossible.

"Let's meet on Main Street after supper," Dick proposed. "Perhaps by that time we'll have found an idea or two."

"If we can find a pocketbook or two lying in the Main Street gutter, that will be something more practical than finding ideas," Tom replied with a doleful shake of his head. "But perhaps we'll really find the pocketbooks. Such things are told of in story books, anyway, you know."

"If we find any pocketbooks," smiled Dick, "our first concern after that will be to find the owners of them. So that stunt wouldn't do us much good, even if it happened."

Then the boys separated and went to their respective homes for supper. But Dick Prescott did not eat as much as usual. He was too preoccupied. He knew to a penny the amount that was in the treasury of their little canoe club, for Mr. Prescott was holding the money subject to his son's call. Certainly the money in the treasury wouldn't bring about a vacation at Lake Pleasant.

Just as soon as the meal was over Dick went out, strolling back to Main Street.

"'Lo, Dick!"

Prescott turned to recognize and nod to a barefooted boy, rather frayed as to attire. Mart Heckler had been two classes below him when Prescott had attended Central Grammar School. Now Mart was waiting for the fall to enter the last grade at Central, which was also to be his last year at school. Mart's parents were poor, and this lad, in another year, must join the army of toilers.

"You must be having a lot of fun this vacation, Dick," remarked Mart rather wistfully. "Lot of fun in that war canoe, isn't there?"

"Yes; there is, Mart. If we see you down at the float one of these days we'll ask you out for a little ride."

"Will you?" asked Mart, his eyes snapping. "Fine! Now that you fellows have your canoe I don't suppose you'll be trying to go away anywhere this summer. Too much fun at home, eh?"

"I don't know about that," said young Prescott wistfully. "Just now we're planning to try to take the canoe up to Lake Pleasant for a while."

"Bully place, the lake," said Mart approvingly. "I'm going up there Monday. Going to be gone for a couple of days."

"How are you going to get there?" Dick asked with interest.

"You know my Uncle Billy, don't you?" asked Mart. "He's the teamster, you know. He's going to Lake Pleasant to get a load of furniture that the installment folks are taking back from a new boarding house up there. He said I could go up with him. We'll carry our food, and sleep over Monday night in the wagon."

Dick halted suddenly, trembling with eagerness. He began to feel that he had scented a way of getting the canoe up to the lake in the hills!

X. PUTTING UP A BIG SCHEME

"Your uncle will be at his regular stand to-night, won't he?" queried Dick Prescott.

"I expect so," Mart agreed. "What's the matter? Do you want to go along with us? I guess Uncle Billy would be willing."

At this moment Dick heard a group of younger boys laughing as they strolled along the street.

Following their glances, Dick saw in the street what is commonly known in small towns as the "hoss wagon"—a vehicle built for the purpose of removing dead horses.

"There goes Fred Ripley's bargain!" chuckled one of the boys.

At that moment Fred Ripley himself turned the corner into Main Street.

"And there's Rip himself," laughed another boy. "Hey, Rip! How's horse flesh?"

But Fred, flushing angrily, hurried along. "What's up?" asked young Prescott as the group of boys came along.

"Haven't you heard about Fred's pony?" asked one of the crowd.

"I know he bought a pony," Dick answered.

"Yes; but Squire Ripley had a veterinary go down to the Ripley stable this afternoon, and look the pony over," volunteered the ready informant. "Vet said that the pony would be worth a dollar or two for his hide, but wouldn't be worth anything alive. So Squire Ripley ordered the pony shot, and that cart is taking the poor beast away."

"Is your canoe going to be a winner?" asked another boy.

"We expect so," Dick nodded.

"Great joke on Rip, isn't it?" grinned another.

"I can't say that his misfortune makes me especially happy," Prescott answered gravely.

"Well, I'm glad he was 'stung' on his pony," continued the other boy. "Rip is no good!"

"There is an old saying to the effect that, if we got our just deserts we'd all of us be more or less unhappy," smiled Dick.

"Rip won't be so chesty with us smaller boys," predicted another grammar school boy. "If he tries it on, all we've got to do is to ask him, 'How's horse flesh, Rip?'"

In spite of himself Dick could not help laughing at the thought of the mortification of the lawyer's son when he should be teased on so tender a point. Then Dick asked:

"Mart, is your uncle at his stand now?"

"I reckon he is," nodded Heckler.

"Let's go over there and see him."

"You're going to try to take the ride with us, then?" asked Mart.

"I think so."

"Bully!" glowed Mart, who, like most of the younger boys of Gridley, was a great admirer of the leader of Dick & Co.

Billy Heckler, a man of thirty, was, indeed, to be found at his stand.

"Dick wants to go up to Lake Pleasant with us on Monday," Mart began, but Dick quickly added:

"I understand, Mr. Heckler, that you're going up to the lake without a load."

"Yes," nodded the truckman.

"Then it struck me that perhaps I could arrange with you to take up our canoe and some bedding, and also let the fellows ride on the wagon."

"How many of you are there?" inquired Billy Heckler.

"The usual six," Dick smiled. "If you can do it, how much would you charge us?"

"Fifteen dollars," replied the driver, after a few moments' thought.

Dick's face showed his disappointment at the answer.

"I'm afraid that puts us out of it, then," he said quietly. "I had hoped that, as you are going up without a load, anyway, you might be willing to take our outfit up for a few dollars. It would be that much to the good for you, wouldn't it?"

"Hardly," Billy replied. "Carrying a load takes more out of a team than an empty wagon does. You can see that, can't you?"

"Ye-es," Dick nodded thoughtfully. "But, you see, we're only boys, and we can't talk money quite like men yet."

"Some men can't do anything with money except talk about it," Billy Heckler grinned. "Well, I'd like to oblige you boys. What's your offer, then?"

"We don't feel that we could pay more than five dollars," Dick answered promptly.

"No money in that," replied Billy Heckler, picking up a piece of wood and whittling.

"No; I'm afraid there isn't," Dick admitted. "I guess our crowd will have to content itself with staying at home and using the canoe on the river."

"The river is a good place," Heckler argued. "Why aren't you all content to stay at home and use your canoe on the river?"

"Because," smiled young Prescott, "I suppose it's human nature to want to get away somewhere in the summer. Then we understand that there are other crew canoes on Lake Pleasant. Of course, now we've spent a few days in the canoe, we believe we're real canoe racers."

"If you could call it ten dollars," Heckler proposed after a few minutes, "that might——"

"The crowd hasn't money enough," Dick replied. "You see, we've got to get the canoe back, too. Then we'll have to use money to feed ourselves up there. I don't see how we can go if we have to spend more than five dollars to get there."

Billy Heckler started to shake his head, but Mart, getting behind Dick, made vigorous signals.

"We-ell, I suppose I can do it," agreed Heckler at last. "There's nothing in the job, but I can remember that I used to be a boy myself. We'll call it a deal, then, shall we?"

"I'll have to see the other fellows first," Prescott answered. "I'll hustle, though. The fellows will all have to get permission at home, too, you know."

"Let me know any time before six to-morrow night," proposed Billy. "It must be understood, though, that if I get a paying freight order to haul to the lake between now and starting time, then my deal with you must be off."

"Of course," Dick agreed. "And thank you, Mr. Heckler. Now, I'll hustle away and see the other fellows."

Dick sped promptly away. When he reached Main Street he found the other fellows there. Dick gleefully detailed the semi-arrangement that he had made.

"Great!" cried Dave.

"Grand, if we can all square matters at home," Tom Reade nodded. "Well, fellows, you all know what we've got to do now. We'll meet again at this same place. All do your prettiest coaxing at home. It spoils the whole thing if anyone of us gets held up from the trip. Did you hear about Rip's pony, Dick?"

"Yes."

"Served him ri—" began Greg Holmes, but stopped suddenly.

For Fred Ripley, turning the corner, saw Dick & Co., and carefully walked around them to avoid having to pass through the little crowd.

"Speaking of angels——!" said Dave Darrin dryly.

"Don't tease him, Darry," urged Dick in a very low voice.

But Fred heard all their remarks. His fists clenched as he walked on with heightened color.

"It's just meat to them to see me so badly sold on the pony, and to know that my father ordered the animal shot and carted away!" muttered young Ripley fiercely. "Of course the whole town knows of it by this time. Prescott's muckers and a few others will be in high glee over my misfortune, but, anyway, I'll have the sympathy of all the decent people in Gridley!"

Fred's ears must have burned that night, however, for the majority of the Gridley boys were laughing over his poor trade in horse flesh.

XI. ALL READY TO RACE, BUT——

On the landing stage at the Hotel Pleasant a group of girls stood on the following Tuesday morning.

"Wouldn't Dick and Dave and the rest of their crowd enjoy this lake if they were here with their canoe?" asked Laura Bentley.

"Yes," agreed Belle Meade. "And very likely they'd win some more laurels for Gridley High School, too. Preston High School has a six-paddle canoe here now, and Trentville High School will send a canoe crew here in a few days. Oh, how I wish the boys could manage to get here with their war canoe!"

"It seems too bad, doesn't it," remarked Clara Marshall, "that some of the nicest boys in our high school are so poor that they can't do the ordinary things they would like to do?"

"Some of the boys in Dick & Co. won't be poor when they've been out of school ten years," Laura predicted, with a glowing face.

"I don't believe any of them will be poor by that time," agreed Clara. "But it must hurt them a good deal, just now, not to have more money."

"I wish they could be here now," sighed Laura.

"You want to see Gridley High School win more laurels in sports and athletics?" asked another girl.

"Yes," assented Miss Bentley, "and I'd like to see the boys here, anyway, whether they won a canoe race or not."

"There's a crew canoe putting off from the other side now!" announced Belle Meade.

"That's probably Preston High School," said Laura.

"Have the Preston boys a war canoe, too?" asked one of the girls, shading her eyes with her hand, and staring hard at the canoe across the lake, some three quarters of a mile away.

"Someone at the hotel said the Preston boys have a cedar and canvas canoe," Laura replied.

"That's a birch-bark canoe over yonder," declared the girl who was studying the distant craft so intently. "I can tell by the way the sun shines on the wet places along the sides of the canoe."

The other girls were now looking eagerly. "Wait a moment," begged Clara, and, turning, sped lightly to the boathouse near by. She returned with a telescope.

"Hurry!" begged Laura Bentley as Clara started to focus the telescope.

"You take it," proposed Clara generously, passing the glass to Laura.

Laura soon had the telescope focused.

"Hurrah, girls!" she cried. "That's the war canoe from Gridley, and Dick & Co. are in it."

She passed the glass to Belle Meade, who took an eager peep through it.

"Hurrah! Gridley High School! Hurrah!" chorused the other girls.

Their voices must have traveled across the water, for Prescott, at the stern of the war canoe, suddenly gave a couple of strokes with his wet, flashing paddle, that swung the prow around, driving the canoe straight in the direction of the landing float.

"Hurrah! Gridley High School! Hurrah!" called the girls again, giving the high school yell of the girls of that institution of learning.

In answer a series of whoops came over the water.

"They're coming at racing speed!" cried Laura.

"Which shows how devoted the boys of our high school are to the young ladies," laughed Belle.

Within a few minutes the canoe was quite close, and coming on swiftly. From the young paddlers went up the vocal volley:

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

"Hurrah! Gridley! Hurrah!" answered the girls.

"Whoop! Wow! wow! Whoo-oo-oo-oop! Indians! Cut-throats! Lunch-robbers! Bad, bad, bad! Speed Club! Glee Club! Canoe Club—Gridley H.S.!" volleyed back Dick & Co.

It was the first time that they had let out their canoe yell in public. They performed it lustily, with zest and pride.

"Splendid!" cried some of the girls, clapping their hands. Though it was not quite plain whether they referred to the new yell, or to the skilful manner in which the boys now brought their craft in. At a single "Ugh!" from Prescott they ceased paddling. Dick, with two or three turns of his own paddle, brought the canoe in gently against the float. Now Dave and Dick held the canoe to the float with their paddles while the other young Indians, one at a time, stepped out. Those who had landed now bent over, holding the gunwale gently while Dave, first, and then Dick, stepped to the float.

"Up with it, braves! Out with it!" cried Dick. The canoe, grasped by twelve hands, was drawn up on to the float, where its wet hull lay glistening in the bright July sunlight.

"You never told us you were coming up here!" cried Laura Bentley, half reproachfully.

"If you're bored at seeing us," proposed Dick, smilingly, "we'll launch our bark and speed away again."

"Of course we're not bored," protested Belle Meade. "But why couldn't you tell us you were coming?"

"We weren't sure of it until late Sunday afternoon," Dave assured her. "Some of us had to do some coaxing at home before we got permission."

"How did you get that big canoe here?" Clara Marshall asked.

"Don't you see the gasoline engine and the folded white wings inside the canoe?" asked Tom Reade gravely. "We can use it either as a canoe or as an airship."

Three or four of the girls, Clara at their head, stepped forward to look for engine and "wings," then stepped back, laughing.

"You're such a fibber, Tom Reade!" declared Susie Sharp.

"A falsifier?" demanded Tom indignantly. "Nothing like it, Miss Susie! The worst you can say of me is that I have the imagination of an inventor."

"Tweedledum and tweedledee!" laughed Clara.

"It does seem good to see you boys up here," Belle went on with enthusiasm. "How long are you going to stay?"

"In other words, how soon are you going to be rid of us?" asked Danny Grin.

"Are you speaking for yourself, Mr. Dalzell?" Belle returned tartly. "I inquired more particularly about the others."

Dan quite enjoyed the laugh on himself, though he replied quickly:

"The others have to go home when I do. They had to promise that they would do so."

"We have been camping at Lake Pleasant for two days," Dick explained. "We came up herewith our canoe and camping outfit on Billy Heckler's wagon. We brought along Harry's bull-dog to watch the camp. As to how long we'll stay, that depends."

"Depends upon what?" Clara asked.

"On how long our funds hold out," Prescott explained, with a frank smile. "You see, all our Wall Street investments have turned out badly."

"I'm truly sorry to hear that young men of your tender age should have been drawn into the snares of Wall Street," retorted Clara dryly.

"So, having had some disappointments in high finance," Prescott went on, "we can stay only as long as our dog fund lasts."

"Dog fund?" asked Susie Sharp, looking bewildered.

"Dick is talking about the money we made in bark," Greg Holmes explained readily.

"Then you really expect to be here a fortnight?" Laura asked.

"Yes; if we don't develop too healthy appetites and eat up our funds before the fortnight is over," Dick assented.

"Oh, you mustn't do that," urged Belle.

"Mustn't do what?" Dave asked.

"Don't eat up your funds too quickly," Belle explained.

"Even if you do," suggested Susie Sharp, teasingly, "you won't need to hurry home. We girls know where there are several fine fields of farm truck that can be robbed late at night. Potatoes, corn, watermelons——"

"It's really very nice of you girls to offer to rob the farmers' fields to find provender for us," returned Greg. "But I am afraid that we boys have been too honestly brought up to allow ourselves to become receivers of stolen——"

"Greg Holmes!" Susie Sharp interrupted, her face turning very red.

"No; it's nice of you, of course," Greg went on tantalizingly, "but we'd rather have a short vacation, that we can tell the whole truth about when we go home."

"You boys may starve, if you like," retorted Susie, with a toss of her head. "I'm through with trying to help you out."

"You know, Susie," Danny Grin went on maliciously, "farmers' fields are often guarded by dogs. Just think how you would feel, trying to climb a tree on a dark night, with a bulldog's teeth just two inches from the heels of your shoes."

"Who are up here, in the way of canoe folks?" Dick asked Laura.

She told him about the Preston High School boys and the coming crew from Trentville High School.

"We ought to be able to get up some good races," remarked Dave.

"You'll disgrace Gridley High School, though, unless you drop Danny Grin and Greg Holmes," retorted Susie.

"Now, don't be too hard on us, Miss Sharp," tantalized Greg, "just because we tried to dissuade you from committing a crime with the otherwise laudable intention of feeding us when our money runs out."

"If you will only leave Greg and Dan out," proposed Clara, "you may call on any two of us girls that you want to take their places in the canoe on race days."

"Whew!" muttered Dick suddenly.

"What's wrong?" demanded Belle.

"Don't mind Prescott," urged Tom Reade. "Just as we left shore on the other side someone threw a stone into the lake and raised a succession of ripples, which rocked the canoe a bit. So—well, you've all heard of sea sickness, haven't you?"

"We might feel worse than sea sick," Dick went on, "if we had raced, and then suddenly remembered that we have no authorization from Gridley High School to represent the school in sporting events."

Tom's face fell instantly. Dave Darrin, too, looked suddenly very serious.

"What's the matter?" asked Laura anxiously.

"Why, you see," Dick went on, "although we are sure enough Gridley High School boys, we haven't gone through the simple little formality of getting our canoe club recognized by the High School Athletic Council."

"You can race just the same, can't you?" asked Susie Sharp, looking much concerned.

"We may race all we wish, and no one will stop us——"

"Then it's all right," said Susie, with an air of conviction.

"But we simply cannot race in the name of Gridley High School."

"Oh, but that's too bad!" cried Clara.

"You can write to someone in the Council and secure the necessary authorization, can't you?" asked Laura.

"Yes, we can write; but it's another matter to get action by the Council in time," Dick responded. "You see, it's the vacation season. There are seven members of the Athletic Council and I believe that all seven of the members are at present away from Gridley. Likely as not they are in seven different states, and the secretary may not even know where most of them are."

Eight Gridley High School girls suddenly looked anxious. They had been rejoicing in the prospect of "rooting" for a victorious Gridley crew here at Lake Pleasant. Now the whole thing seemed to have fallen flat.

"The thing to do—though it doesn't look very promising—is to——" began Tom Reade, then came to dead stop.

"How provoking you can be, when you want to, Tom," pouted Clara. "Why don't you go on?"

"Because I found myself stuck fast in a new quagmire of thought," Reade confessed humbly. "What I was about to say is that the first thing to do is to write to Mr. William Howgate, secretary of the Gridley High School Athletic Council of the Alumni Association. But that was where the thought came in and stabbed me with a question mark. Mr. Howgate is out of town. Does anyone here know his address?"

Fourteen Gridley faces looked blank until Dick at last remarked:

"I suppose a letter sent to his address in Gridley would reach him. It would be forwarded."

"Thank goodness for one quick-witted boy in Gridley High School!" uttered Belle. "Of course a letter would be forwarded."

"And there isn't any time to be lost, either," urged Susie. "Girls, we'll take Dick right up to the hotel now, and sit and watch him while he writes and mails that letter."

"Right!" came a prompt chorus.

"Come along, boys," added Susie, as the girls started away with their willing captive.

"Let Dave go," spoke up Tom. "Some of us must stay behind and stand by our canoe. It's valuable—to us!"

So Darrin was shoved forward. He and Prescott had walked a few yards when the latter stopped in sudden dismay.

"What's the matter?" asked Clara.

"We are dressed all right for our own camp," Dick replied, glancing down at his flannel shirt, old trousers and well-worn pair of canvas "sneakers" on his feet. "We didn't feel out of place in the canoe, either. But the hotel is a fashionable place, and we can't go up in this sort of rig, to discredit you girls. For that matter, just think how smart you all look yourselves, dressed in the daintiest of summer frocks. While we look like—well, I won't say the word."

"If our Gridley boys are ashamed to be seen with us just because they're in rough camp attire," said Laura gently, "then we haven't as much reason to be proud of them as we thought we had."

"I'm answered," Dick admitted humbly. "Lead on, then. We'll take comfort from our company, and hold our heads as high as we can."

On to the wide hotel porch, where many well-dressed people sat, the girls conducted the two delegates from the canoe club. However, none of the guests on the porch paid any particular attention to Dick and Dave. Both campers and canoers were common enough at this summer resort.

It was Clara who led the way into a parlor, in one corner of which there was a writing desk. Dick seated himself at the desk, and after a moment's thought began to write, then promptly became absorbed in his task. Dave and the girls seated themselves at a little distance, chatting in low tones.

There were other guests of the Hotel Pleasant in the parlor, while still others passed in or out from time to time.

One young man, quite fashionably dressed, stepped into the parlor, looked about him, then started as his glance fell on Dick and Dave.

It was Fred Ripley.

"Hello!" muttered Ripley in a voice just loud enough to carry, as he stood looking at Dick and Dave. "I thought I saw, out in the grounds, a sign that read: 'No tramps, beggars or peddlers allowed on these grounds or in the hotel.'"

Dick's fingers trembled so that he dropped the pen, though he tried to conceal his feelings.

Dave Darrin's fists clenched tightly, though he had the good sense to realize that to start a fight in the parlor was out of the question.

Ripley's remark had been loud enough to attract the attention of nearly every person in the big room toward Dick and Dave.

XII. SUSIE DISCOMFITS A BOOR

Laura Bentley bit her lips. She flushed, then started to rise, but Susie Sharp gently pushed her back into her seat, then crossed to an electric button in the frame of a window.

A bell-boy promptly answered Susie's ring.

"Will you kindly ask the manager to come here at once?" asked Susie.

As it happened, the manager was no further away than the corridor. He came in quickly, bowing.

"Mr. Wright," asked Susie coldly, nodding toward Fred Ripley, who stood leaning over a chair, smiling insolently, "will you kindly have this objectionable person removed? He is annoying our guests."

In a twinkling Fred's insolent smile vanished. Susie's request had not been voiced in a loud tone, but it had been heard by perhaps twenty-five strangers in the parlor.

Ripley's face paled, briefly, then became fiery red. He stood erect, stammered inarticulately, then looked as though he were furtively seeking some hiding place.

"I think, Miss Sharp," replied the hotel manager, with another bow, "that the young man is on the point of leaving, and that the services of a porter will not be needed."

Fred tried to look unconcerned; he fished mentally for something smart to say. For once, however, his self assurance had utterly deserted him.

"Oh—well!" he muttered, then turned and left the parlor in the midst of a deep silence that completed his utter humiliation.

"Mr. Wright," said Laura, "I want you to know Mr. Darrin, one of our most popular high school boys in Gridley. Dick, can't you come over here a moment? Mr. Wright, Mr. Prescott. Our two friends, Mr. Wright, have brought up a racing canoe. They are camping across the lake. We hope they will arrange for races with the Preston and Trentville High School Canoe Clubs."

"I am most glad to meet your friends," said the manager, shaking hands with Dick and Dave. "Two of the Preston High School young men are stopping here in the house, and the others are over at the Lakeview House. I hope, Mr. Prescott, that we shall be able to have some fine high school races. It will increase the gayety of the season here."

"Thank you," said Dick. "But I am afraid, sir, that we have been worse than neglectful—stupid.

"How so?" asked Mr. Wright, his manner quickly putting both rather shabby-looking boys wholly at their ease.

"Why, sir," Prescott explained, "we had never thought, until this morning, to secure authorization from the Athletic Council of our school to represent Gridley High School. I am now engaged in writing a letter asking for that authorization."

"Let me take a hand in this," begged Mr. Wright. "Is your letter at all of a private nature?"

"Not in the least, sir."

"May I see it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Wright."

The hotel manager followed Dick to the writing desk, where he glanced over the letter.

"I have only one suggestion to make," said the manager. "Why not ask the secretary, Mr. Howgate, to send his answer by telegraph to this hotel, collect?"

"That would be all right," agreed Dick frankly, "if his answer isn't too long, or if he doesn't have to send more than one telegram. We are not exactly overburdened with funds, Mr. Wright."

"That doesn't cut any figure at all," replied the hotel manager in a voice so low that none but Prescott heard him. "Any telegrams sent here for you will be paid for by the hotel. There will be no expense to you, Mr. Prescott."

"I'm afraid I don't understand why you should do this, Mr. Wright," said Dick, looking at the other attentively.

"Purely a matter of business, my boy," the hotel manager beamed down at him. "Such racing as I hope to have here on Lake Pleasant constitutes a summer season attraction. Arrange a schedule of races, and you may be sure that both hotels will advertise the fact. It will be enough to draw a lot of young people here, and this hotel thrives by the number of guests that it entertains. So will you do me the favor of asking your Mr. Howgate to telegraph his answer—collect—addressing it here?"

That began to look like something that Prescott could understand. He called Dave over to him and told his chum what was being discussed.

"Fine!" glowed Darrin. "Thank you, Mr. Wright."

So Dick made the suggested addition to the letter. After he addressed an envelope and had sealed it the manager took the letter away to mail. Then he returned to say, with a tactfulness that won the hearts of the eight Gridley High School girls:

"Mr. Prescott, you and your friends will oblige me if you will make this hotel your headquarters when you are on this side of the lake. We shall always be delighted to see you here."

Thanking the manager for his courtesy, Dick and Dave accompanied Laura to the porch; where they were introduced to some of the other guests. Then the two boys and the girls started down to the lakeside once more.

"Mr. Wright was very kind," murmured Dick gratefully.

"He never fails in courtesy toward anyone," replied Laura. "You boys will come over every day, won't you? We must have a picnic or two."

"And you must all visit our camp." Dick urged. "It isn't much of a place, but the welcome will be of the real Gridley kind. If you dare take the risk, we'll even offer you a camp meal."

"The farmers' gardens are in danger, after all, then," laughed Susie. "If you are going to deplete your larders to entertain us, we girls will surely rob the farmers to make up for what we eat."

Susie's face had grown so grave that Prescott could not help regarding her quizzically.

"I mean just what to say about robbing the farmers, don't I, girls?" Susie asked.

"Yes," agreed Laura Bentley promptly. She had no idea what was passing in her friend's head, but she knew Susie well enough to feel sure that the latter was planning nothing very wicked.

"Can't we take you out, two at a time?" proposed Dick, as the young people neared the float.

"Now?" inquired Laura.

"Yes; since 'now' is always the best time for doing things," Prescott replied.

In no time at all the plan had been agreed to. Clara and Susie went out for the first ride in the canoe, Tom Reade taking command, while Dick and Dave remained on the float.

Two at a time the girls were taken out on the water. This consumed nearly two hours of time altogether, but it was thoroughly enjoyed by every member of the party.

But at last it came close, indeed, to the luncheon hour.

"Now, when are you coming over to that picnic in our camp?" Dick asked in an outburst of hospitality.

"At what time of the day?" Laura inquired.

"If your mother and Mrs. Meade will come along as chaperons," Dick answered, "night would be the best time."

"Why at night?"

"Because, then, you wouldn't be able to see the shabby aspect of our camp so plainly."

"It would be very jolly to go over and have a picnic meal by the campfire," Belle agreed. "Yet, in that case, we would want to reach your place by half-past four or so in the afternoon."

"Why?"

"So that we girls may have the fun of helping prepare a famous feast," Miss Meade went on. "Boys, if we come, we shall pass luncheon by and bring keen appetites for that evening feast. What is the principal item on the bill of fare of your camp?"

"Canned goods," replied Tom Reade.

"Don't you believe him," Dick interjected quickly. "Lake trout, bass and perch. This lake is well stocked, and we have already found one splendid fishing hole. We got up at five this morning and caught so many fish in half an hour that we threw some of them back into the water because we had no ice."

"Will your mothers come, if we have it in the evening?" asked Dick looking at Laura and Belle.

"Surely," nodded Laura quickly.

"And we'll greatly enjoy it," Dick went on, "if Dr. Bentley will also come. Is your father here, Miss Meade?"

"I'm sorry to say that he isn't," Belle answered. "A real picnic, in real woods, beside real water, would appeal to him strongly."

"But we haven't fixed upon the date," cried Susie impatiently.

"How would to-morrow night do?" Dick suggested.

"Famously," Laura replied. "Now, boys, you catch the fish to-morrow afternoon, and don't bother so much about the other things to eat. We won't have any canned stuff in our famous feast. We girls will bring all the garden stuff."

"And will steal it from the farmers, at that," added Susie teasingly.

"Yes, you will!" mocked Danny Grin good-humoredly.

"I give you our word that we'll steal everything that we bring in the garden line," Susie declared vigorously.

"Then you'll arrange it with the farmer in advance," Greg laughed.

"I give you our word that we won't do that, either," laughed Laura, coming to her friend's support, though she had no idea what was passing in Susie's busy little head.

"There goes the luncheon bell!" cried Dick reproachfully. "We're keeping you girls away from your meal. Come on, fellows. Into the canoe with you."

"But you'll be back here to-morrow morning?" pressed Miss Bentley.

"Yes; at what time?"

"Ten o'clock."

"You'll find us here punctually."

Dick & Co. paddled back to their camp feeling that they were having a most jolly time, with all the real fun yet to come.

Dick did not think it worth while to go over to the hotel again that day, to see if a telegram had come. He was certain that the letter would not find Mr. Howgate earlier than the next day, in any event.

But at ten o'clock the next morning Dick & Co., having put the best possible aspect on their attire, paddled gently in alongside the float of the Hotel Pleasant.

Even before they had landed, Fred Ripley, who was stopping with his father and mother at the Lakeview House, alighted from an automobile runabout in the woods some two hundred yards from the lakeside camp of Dick & Co.

"Those muckers are away," Fred told himself, as he watched the war canoe go in at the hotel float. "Now, if I have half as much ingenuity as I sometimes think I have, I believe I can cut short their stay here by rendering that cheap crowd homeless—and foodless!"

XIII. THE RIPLEY HEIR TRIES COAXING

Fred studied the now distant canoe, then glanced carefully about the camp.

He knew that any sign of his presence, observed by Dick & Co., would be sure to result in the swift return of the canoe, with its load of six indignant boys.

Nor did young Ripley dare to risk discovery as the perpetrator of the outrage he was now planning. He feared his father's certain wrath.

"There are screens of bushes behind which I can operate," Ripley decided. "I am glad of the bushes, for, if I use care, not a living soul can see me. Now, for some swift work."

It did not take Ripley long to discover where the boys' food supply was stored.

"These fellows act like boobs!" muttered Fred in disgust. "Here they go away and leave everything exposed. If they didn't have an enemy in the world, even then some tramp could come along and clean out the camp. Humph! Two tramps, if they wanted to work for a little while, could carry away all the food there is here. What a lot of poor, penniless muckers Prescott and his friends are!"

Again Fred studied the lay of the land, then drew off his coat and flung it aside.

"Now, to work!" he said to himself gleefully.

First of all, he got the food supplies all together. Most of this stuff was in the form of canned goods. Ripley gathered it up in one big pile.

Then he stepped over to the tent, from which, at several points and angles he looked carefully over to the hotel landing float on the other side of Lake Pleasant.

"They can't see, from the hotel, whether the tent is down or up," Fred determined. "So here goes!"

Opening the largest blade of his pocketknife, Fred cut one of the guy-ropes. He passed around the tent, cutting each one in turn, until the canvas shelter fell over in a white mass.

"Won't they be sore, though?" laughed Fred maliciously, as he started to carry off the camp supplies.

Gr-r-r-r-r! Gr-r-r-r!

Just as Fred was straightening up to start off with his load for a bush-screen near the lake front, Ripley heard that ominous growl. There was also the sound of something moving through the bushes.

As Fred turned his face blanched.

"Harry Hazelton's bull-dog!" he quivered, now utterly frightened as he caught sight of the gleaming teeth in that ugly muzzle. "I didn't know that they had brought that beast with them. It's the lake for mine! If I can only get into the water I can swim faster than the dog!"

All this flashed through his mind in an Instant. Young Ripley started in full flight.

Close behind him, bounding savagely, came the bull-dog, Towser!

Trip! Fred's foot caught in a root. Crying out in craven fright, Fred Ripley plunged to the ground.

There was no time to rise. Towser, growling angrily, was upon him with a bound.

Gr-r-r-r-r!

Fred, with a shriek, felt the dog's teeth in the back of his shirt.

"Get out, you beast!" begged young Ripley in a faint voice.

Gr-r-r-r! was all the answer. Plainly the dog liked the taste of that shirt, for he held to it tight.

"Get away—please do!" faltered Fred in a broken voice. "Get away. Don't bite. Nice doggie! Nice, nice doggie! Please let go!"

Gr-r-r-r-r!

But Towser didn't attempt to bite as yet. For a bull-dog, and considering how fully he was master of the field at present, Towser displayed amazing good nature. Only when young Ripley moved did the four-footed policeman of the camp utter that warning growl.

"Nice doggie!" coaxed Fred pleadingly. "Good old fellow!"

To this bit of rank flattery Towser offered no reply. It began to look as though he would be quite satisfied if only his captive made no effort to get away.

"Wouldn't I like to be on my feet, with a shotgun in my hands!" gritted Fred.

"Gr-r-r-r," replied Towser, as though he were an excellent reader of human minds.

For a few moments Fred lay utterly quiet, save for the trembling that he could not control.

During those same moments Towser made himself more comfortable by shifting himself so that he lay with his paws across Fred's left shoulder-blade. His teeth remained firmly fastened in Ripley's shirt.

"Now, how long are you going to stay here, you beast?" glared Fred Ripley, though he did not dare emphasize his displeasure by stirring. It was an instance in which his own displeasure amounted to infinitely less than that of the dog.

Over at the hotel Dick Prescott was reading this telegram to his chums:

"Letter received. Am communicating with other members of Council. Will let you know when I have word. Signed Howgate."

"Oh, you'll get your authorization all right," Laura declared cheerily. "It's only a matter of form."

Laura did not tell something she knew—to the effect that at her request Dr. Bentley had wired Mr. Howgate, urging that the permission be granted to the boys to race as a high school organization.

"May we take you young ladies out in the canoe this morning?" Dick inquired.

"Only a few of us, or for very short, trips," Laura replied. "The fact is, we girls are to play hostess to you this noon."

"Hostess?" asked Dave, looking puzzled.

"Yes; we are going to be your hostesses at luncheon," Laura smiled.

"But I thought you girls were going to skip luncheon in favor of the picnic meal to-night."

"Wait until you boys see the luncheon," laughed Susie Sharp, "and you'll be sure to think we might as well have skipped that meal. It will be light and shadowy, I promise you. Toast, lettuce salad, moonbeam soup, sprites' cake, feather pudding and ghost fruit."

"Won't there be some dog biscuit?" asked Danny Grin hopefully.

"You shall have a special plate," Susie promised.

So the canoe was hauled up on the float and left there, and a general chat followed.

At noon, Dr. Bentley joined the young people, talking with them pleasantly, after which he led the way to the hotel.

There, in a little private dining room, the boys met Mrs. Bentley and Mrs. Meade. The luncheon was soon after served.

It was a dainty meal, though far more elaborate than Susie had led the boys to expect.

At the end of the meal a waiter, looking duly solemn, presented at Danny Grin's elbow a plate holding three dog biscuits.

"Thank you," said Dan Dalzell politely. "But I shall keep them for future use."

Very calmly, notwithstanding Dick's slight frown, Dan placed the biscuit in his coat pockets, though some of the girls found it hard indeed not to giggle.

After the meal the party adjourned to the lawn under the shade of some fine old elms. A little later a farm wagon, drawn by a pair of horses, stopped near the group.

"Now, you must excuse us, boys," announced Laura, rising with a mysterious air. "We girls have a little errand to perform. We shall be back before half-past four o'clock."

"Wouldn't it be better to be back a good deal before that time?" urged Dick. "You see, we can't carry more than three passengers at once, and we are to have eleven guests to ferry across the lake."

"Why, didn't I tell you?" asked Laura, looking astonished. "My father said it would be an imposition to ask you boys to make four round trips this afternoon, and as many more to-night, so he has engaged one of the hotel launches to take us over, and to call for us this evening. You don't mind, do you, boys? But we would like to have you here at half-past four o'clock to go across the lake with us."

"We'll be here," Dick promised promptly.

Six high school boys watched the girls drive off in the farm wagon, waving handkerchiefs and parasols back to the boys.

"Two o'clock," remarked Dick, looking at his watch. "Suppose we take a spin up the lake?"

"Or go back to camp, to make it more ship shape?" suggested Tom Reade.

"What's the use?" inquired Prescott. "We fixed everything as well as we could before leaving there this morning. As to the safety of the camp, Harry's dog, Towser, can be depended upon to look after that."

So Dick & Co. headed up the lake in their canoe.

XIV. THE LIAR HAS A LIE READY

"That's an odd sight, over yonder," announced Dave, pointing shoreward with his paddle.

They were now nearly three miles above the hotel landing. They had entered a section of the country given over to truck gardening.

"Women gathering in the produce," said Dick, after a glance.

"I don't like that," uttered Dave in disgust.

"I thought we had progressed too far, and had become too civilized. Years ago I know that women used to work in the fields, but I thought we were above that sort of thing."

"Perhaps the farmer's sons' were all girls," suggested Danny Grin.

"I don't like it, anyway," retorted Dave.

"Nor I," agreed Tom. "To have women at work in the fields makes it appear as though the men are too lazy."

The sight on shore was not interesting enough to claim long attention, so the young canoeists proceeded on their way.

At a little after four o'clock, however, they were back at the landing.

Not long after, eight young women were sighted riding along in a farm wagon, while Dr. and Mrs. Bentley and Mrs. Meade strolled down one of the paths.

The wagon reached the pier first, just as a launch in charge of one of the hotel employs came puffing out of a boathouse near by.

"Come here, boys, and help us unload the wagon," called Susie Sharp.

Dick & Co. sprang in answer to her summons.

"Why, what on earth have you here?" demanded Dave, opening his eyes wide as he saw the contents of the wagon.

There were dozens of ears of corn, a sack of new potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, a dozen big watermelons and a bushel of early summer apples.

"Sh!" warned Laura mysteriously. "Didn't we promise you we'd rob some farmer for the feast? Did you think that boys are the only ones who can go foraging for a country picnic?"

"You girls didn't go foraging—did you?" gasped Dick Prescott.

"We surely did," retorted Susie Sharp.

"Didn't we say we would do so? And doesn't all this stuff prove it?"

"Then you paid the farmer for it," guessed Tom Reade wisely.

"We didn't do any such thing," Miss Sharp insisted. "Did we, girls?"

Seven other young feminine heads shook in vigorous denial.

"We didn't pay the farmer, and we didn't make any arrangement with him," said Laura quietly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "We simply drove out along the road until we came to the field, and——"

"——Ravaged it," supplemented Belle Meade demurely. "We went through that field like war, famine and pestilence combined!"

"Hurry!" called Susie peremptorily.

So the boys made haste with the vegetables and fruit, transferring everything to the bow of the launch, where it was neatly stacked.

"What do you think of that?" Tom demanded of Dick in a whisper at the first opportunity.

"The girls are chaffing us," Dick answered knowingly. "Stole the stuff, did they? That is, stole it in earnest? Nonsense! They're too nice girls for that! But I guess even nice girls, like some decent fellows, find enjoyment, once in a while, in making believe they are doing something desperate. Of course they didn't really steal this stuff."

"If they did," muttered Tom, "they'd be the kind of girls we wouldn't want to know."

"It's all right," Dick assured him. "Sooner or later the truth of this joke of theirs will all come out. There are no finer girls in the country than they."

By this time the older people had joined them. Dr. Bentley's party embarked in the launch, taking up all the room there was.

"Pass us your bow-line, and we can just as well give you boys a tow," proposed the doctor. "There is no use in your paddling."

"Thank you very much, sir," Dick answered, "but paddling is just the fun for which we bought this canoe. We do it because we like it. And we'll show you how fast we can get across the lake."

With a toot of the whistle the launch started. Dick gave the word to his chums. At first the canoe, even under moderate paddling, went ahead of the launch, though gradually the launch drew up.

"You boys look as if you were working," called Dr. Bentley.

"We're doing very little work, sir," Dave answered. "We could make the canoe go faster than this, but it would hardly do to run ahead of our guests."

In truth the canoe slipped rapidly through the water with the expenditure of only a moderate amount of energy on the part of Dick & Co.

In a few minutes the lake had been crossed. A point was found at which the launch could be backed in. By this time the boys were on shore, their canoe hauled up, and they stood ready to help their guests ashore.

"We've landed a little below the camp," said Dick, "but it won't take us more than a minute to walk there. After we've taken you into the camp we'll return for the garden truck."

Gr-r-r-r-r! came a warning sound through the bushes.

"Towser!" spoke Harry Hazelton sharply. "I'm ashamed of you!"

"You ought to be!" came the answer in another voice, and a surly one, at that.

"Fred Ripley?" muttered Dick. "What on earth can he be doing here?"

Unconsciously all of the picnickers hastened their steps. Then they came upon a truly ludicrous sight.

Fred lay where he had been lying ever since ten o'clock that morning. He was coatless, stretched out face downward, with Towser still camped across his shoulder, and the dog's teeth still fastened in his shirt.

"Come and call this measly dog off!" ordered Fred, in a surly tone. "This is a fine reward that I get for trying to do you fellows a friendly turn!"

Dick, Dave and Tom were the first to get within range and obtain a glimpse of the extraordinary scene. They halted, gasping, though their glances swiftly took in the whole affair. They comprehended what Ripley had been doing, and how the dog had come upon the marauder.

By this time the other members of the party came in sight. Fred still lay on the ground, scowling and fuming over his undignified position, while Towser still kept an eye open for business.

"Call this dog off!" Fred ordered again.

"How did the dog happen to catch you here?" Dick asked quietly.

"Call this dog off and I'll tell you," snapped Fred. "I was trying to do you fellows a good turn, but the dog had to interfere and get hold of the wrong party."

"You were trying to do us a good turn?" gasped Dick wonderingly.

"Yes—but it will be the last time, unless you call this dog off," snarled young Ripley.

Perhaps it is hardly necessary to say that not one in the party believed Fred's extraordinary story.

"Hazelton, get this dog of yours away, or I'll go to court and secure an order to have the beast shot!" snapped young Ripley.

But at this moment another voice was heard calling from the roadway:

"Fred! Fred! Are you there?"

It was Squire Ripley's voice, though the lawyer himself could not be seen as yet.

"Yes, sir; your son is here," Dick answered. "Come and see just how he is here!"

"Get your dog off quickly, Hazelton!" urged Fred.

But Harry, at a slight sign from Dick, didn't stir or open his mouth to call off his dog.

Through the brush came the sound of hurried steps. Then Lawyer Ripley stepped into the group.

"Fred, what on earth does this mean?" demanded the lawyer, staring hard.

"That's just what we thought you might like to find out, sir," Dick replied. "We've been away from camp all day, and just came back to this scene, Mr. Ripley. You are something of an expert in the matter of evidence, sir. Will you kindly tell us what you make out of this? There is our tent cut down. There are all of our food supplies in a pile, except what you see scattered about on the ground. Your son appears to have been headed for the lake when our dog overtook him and pinned him down. As a lawyer, Mr. Ripley, what would you conclude from the evidence thus presented?"

"Call that dog away!" ordered Mr. Ripley.

"Willingly, sir," Dick agreed, "now that you have had opportunity to look into all the evidence that we found. Harry, will you do the honors?"

Smiling slightly, Hazelton stepped forward to speak to Towser. That four-footed guardian of the camp displayed some resentment at first over the idea of letting go of Fred's shirt. After a little, however, Hazelton succeeded in getting his dog away and tied to a tree.

Fred rose to his feet, his face fiery red while he trembled visibly.

"What is the meaning of this, young man?" demanded Lawyer Ripley.

"The meaning," choked the lawyer's son wrathfully, "is just this: I was coming by this place this morning in the runabout, when I heard a good deal of coarse laughter down here. I knew the voices weren't those of boys, and so I knew that something must be up. I got out of the car and came over here. I saw two tramps in the camp. They had already cut down the tent, and when I arrived they were planning to cart the food away. Then they saw me as I stepped forward. I told them what I thought of them for thieving in such fashion. Then the tramps got ready to jump on me and thrash me. Just as I raised my hands to defend myself this dog came bounding out of the woods and the tramps ran away. Having no more sense than any other fool dog, the cur pinned me down and held me here."

"All day?" asked his father.

"Yes; I've been a prisoner here for hours," quavered Fred. "And now these fellows want to make out, before the high school friends of mine," nodding toward the girls, "that I was the thief and destroyer."

"That story is straightforward enough," commented the lawyer, turning to the others rather stiffly. "Do any of you wish to challenge it?"

No one spoke.

"I'll tell you what I wish, father," broke in Fred angrily. "I want an order from the court to have that dog seized and shot. He's a vicious and dangerous brute!"

"I think such a court order will be easily obtained," replied Mr. Ripley frigidly.

Harry Hazelton turned pale, clenching his fists, though he had the good sense not to speak just then. The other boys all looked highly concerned.

"Were you bitten by the dog?" asked Dr. Bentley quietly.

"I—I don't know yet," replied Fred. "I can't tell."

"Mr. Ripley," said Dr. Bentley very quietly, "if you contemplate seeking a court order for having the dog shot, then I suggest that you permit me to take the young man aside and examine him. I am a physician, with a good many years of practice behind me, and any court would pronounce me competent to testify as to whether your son has been bitten, and, if so, to what extent."

"I don't choose to be examined here," Fred declared sulkily. "If I want anything of that sort done our own physician can do it."

"Young man," replied Dr. Bentley, "your father is an eminent lawyer. He is therefore qualified to inform you that if you decline an examination now as to the presence or absence of injuries on your body, your refusal would have to be taken into account in contested court action for the death of the dog."

"Dr. Bentley is quite right, and he has stated the matter accurately," replied Mr. Ripley. "Fred, do you desire to be examined now? If so, we can go away to some secluded spot with the doctor, and with the dog's owner and any other witness desired."

"I don't want to do anything now but to get away from here," replied Fred sulkily. "I want to be rid of Prescott and his friends as soon as possible."

"Very good, then," nodded his father. "You may do as you like, but if you refuse Dr. Bentley's suggestion for an immediate examination you will stand no chance of securing an order dooming the dog."

Fred's further answer was an angry snort as he turned away. His father lingered to say:

"If your suspicions that my son was here improperly are anywhere near correct, then you are entitled to my most hearty apology. Fred is a peculiar and high-strung boy, but I believe his impulses are right in the main. I will add that I believe his account of how he came to be in this strange plight. He took the car early this morning. I am just returning from a spin in our larger automobile. I saw my runabout at the edge of the road and it occurred to me to stop and see if my son were here. Is there anything more to be said about my son's peculiar experience here?"

"Nothing, thank you, Mr. Ripley," replied Dr. Bentley, after a sidelong glance at Dick.

"Then I will bid you all good afternoon," replied Squire Ripley, raising his hat to the women.

Dr. Bentley watched the lawyer out of sight, then turned to Hazelton with a smile.

"Harry," remarked the physician, "your dog won't be shot by order of the court."

XV. AT THE GREATEST OF FEASTS

It proved a glorious affair, that picnic by the edge of the lake.

Tom and Dan took Clara and Susie out in the canoe to watch them as they fished.

The other four boys fell to with a will, reweaving in new guy ropes and erecting the tent again.

Then firewood was gathered in armfuls and several campfires started.

Just before dark the canoe came in with a cargo of nearly four dozen fish.

These Tom and Dan took to one side and quickly cleaned. Just as Dick and Dave were beginning to realize with some embarrassment that they had nowhere near enough dishes for such an affair, the man from the launch appeared with two baskets of dishes. He then brought up three folding tables and proceeded to set them up, next bringing on campstools. Dr. Bentley had overlooked nothing. Last of all paper lanterns were strung from the trees, and just at dark these were lighted.

Potatoes were set to boil in a kettle. Embers were raked down and corn still in the husks was set in the embers and covered up to roast. Some of the girls sliced more tomatoes than the whole party could eat. Cucumbers, too, were prepared.

Fish were broiled on grates over the fires. All was ready just before dark.

Dick gave the launch man a hearty invitation to join them at supper, the latter shaking his head, expressed his thanks and hurried away.

What an appetizing meal it was! Nothing seemed to have gone wrong. It was a merry party indeed that sat down around the tables.

Suddenly there came an interruption. "Camp! Oh, I say—camp!" called a gruff voice from the road.

"Here!" called Dick, rising from the table. "Who is it?"

"Any girls there?" demanded the same voice.

"Several," Dick acknowledged.

"Having a picnic, are you?" demanded the strange voice.

"The best ever!" Dick replied heartily.

"Lots of fresh vegetables, too, eh?"

"Ye-es," Dick assented slowly, and with a peculiar feeling. He recalled the laughing talk of the girls about "stealing," and now wondered what was about to happen.

"I guess they're the girls I want, then," continued the voice of the unseen speaker.

Dick & Co. felt a swift spasm of uneasiness, for that voice sounded as though it might belong to the law.

A moment later a roughly dressed man moved down into the circle.

"My name is Dobson," said the new comer, looking hard at the girls. "I reckon you were in my truck garden this afternoon, weren't you?"

"Why—er—-ye-es," admitted Laura, the first to find her voice. She rose and faced Mr. Dobson with a look of budding uneasiness.

"Took lot of my vegetables, didn't you?" pressed the farmer.

"Ye-es," faltered Laura, "but——"

"Excuse me, miss, but there aren't many kinds of 'buts' about a transaction of that kind," insisted the farmer.

Here, Dr. Bentley, who had looked less concerned than anyone else present, broke in:

"Your name is Dobson?" he asked.

"Not Gibson, then?" pressed the doctor.

"Course my name isn't Gibson, if it's Dobson," retorted the farmer. "There is a man named Gibson who lives 'bout a quarter of a mile from my place."

"Then I imagine I shall have to take you one side and have a little conversation with you," smiled the doctor, rising. "Will you follow me?"

The farmer nodded without speaking and the two men walked away.

Ten minutes later Dr. Bentley returned to the young people.

"I appeased the farmer's wrath," he announced, with a laugh. "And now, young ladies, if my judgment is worth anything, I think it is about time to let the cat out of the bag."

Eight high school girls flushed and looked rather confused.

"Why, has anything wrong been going on?" inquired Mrs. Bentley anxiously, while Mrs. Meade waited breathlessly for the reply.

"Nothing extremely wrong," replied Dr. Bentley. "I will explain what happened. Some of these young ladies, having heard that boys occasionally rob orchards or gardens for a feast, laughingly promised the young hosts of this evening that they would steal the necessary vegetables for to-night's supper. Now, while some boys may sometimes do such things, it is needless to add that no boy with a good home and a mother's training is likely to become engaged in such petty pilfering. I don't believe the boys for a moment credited the girls with any real stealing."

"We didn't," spoke up Dick promptly. "We knew there was a string to the joke somewhere."

"These young ladies consulted me," went on Dr. Bentley. "Of course they wanted the whole matter kept very quiet, and they made me promise secrecy. I told them that I didn't like their plan at all, but they coaxed, and I will admit that I yielded to their coaxing very much against my best judgment. They wanted to be able to say that they hadn't paid the farmer, or made any arrangement whatever with him. That much is true. They didn't approach the farmer—they sent me. I went to Farmer Gibson and made the arrangement with him for the supplies, paying him in advance a fair price for whatever the young ladies would take out of his garden. Yet, in spite of my care in the matter, and my very explicit directions to them, it seems that they went astray, and descended upon the truck garden of Mr. Dobson, instead of that of Mr. Gibson. Mr. Dobson, not having received any pay, very naturally objected to being looted of his vegetables while Mr. Gibson received the money. But I have been able to explain matters in a satisfactory manner to Mr. Dobson, and have sent him on his ways"

Eight very crestfallen high school girls listened to this recital.

The boys, had they not felt a manly sympathy for their discomfited friends, would have laughed outright.

"I am glad that it is no worse," said Mrs. Bentley in a relieved voice. "At the same time, it was a very silly performance."

"It was," nodded the doctor, who turned to the girls to add:

"My dears, as you succeeded this time in making me your very reluctant accomplice, I am in no position to say very much to you. But I trust you all realize the situation and its outcome, and that you will never allow yourselves to be made ridiculous again in any such way."

"I don't believe we shall," Laura replied. "We felt ashamed of ourselves afterwards, but we were silly enough to feel because we had pledged ourselves to forage for fruit and vegetables that the joke must be carried out."

"Tom Reade," snapped Susie Sharp, "you are just bursting with laughter that you can hardly hold back."

"Not I!" Tom denied promptly. "I am congratulating myself that we boys had sense enough not to take seriously your claim that you had been robbing anyone's garden. As it happened, you did that very thing, but you didn't know it, and you didn't mean to."

There was an embarrassed silence. Then Dick proposed:

"Let's have a good-natured laugh all around and forget the whole thing."

That relieved the awkwardness of the situation. After that a watermelon was cut and brought to the tables.

"Gridley, ahoy!" called a voice across the dark waters.

"Who's there?" called Dick.

"Preston High School Canoe Club. May we visit your camp?"

"Shall I invite them over?" asked Dick, looking at Mrs. Bentley and then at the girls.

Receiving their consent, he called out:

"Come in, Preston High School! Welcome!"

A soft splashing of paddles showed where the visitors were coming in to shore. Dan Dalzell taking the camp lantern, ran to meet them.

A moment later six Preston lads were stepping ashore, one after the other. Dick, having excused himself at table, came forward also to greet them.

Two of the Preston High School boys were already acquainted with Laura Bentley and some of her friends. Introductions followed rapidly.

"Drop into the Gridley seats and have some of the watermelon," Dick pressed the visitors, he and his chums standing in order to do the honors of the occasion.

"It looks as though we had been trying to invite ourselves to a banquet," laughed Hartwell, "big chief" of the Preston High School "Indians." "We didn't mean to seem as rude as that, Prescott."

"All I know," smiled Dick cordially, "is that you are all heartily welcome. Can we stir up a fire and broil some fish?"

"Don't think of it, thank you," begged Hartwell. "We've had our suppers—dinners, the hotel folks insist on calling 'em. It's jolly enough for us to be allowed to join you and see the watermelon passing around."

"Chug! chug! Puff! puff!" sounded the returning launch. Dick glanced apprehensively at Dr. Bentley and the ladies. Did the coming of the launch mean that it was about time for the pleasant evening to break up?

"Might I ask where and how you find such delicious watermelons in this neck of the woods?" inquired Brown, of the Prestons.

"Ask the young ladies," piped up Danny Grin, thereby getting himself much disliked for at least the next thirty seconds.

"Dr. Bentley and the young ladies obtained the melons from a farmer," explained Tom Reade, giving Dan an unseen poke in the small of the back.

"These melons look good enough to steal," laughed Hartwell, and was unable to understand the total silence that greeted his assertion.

"Help wanted from a couple of you boys!" called the voice of the launch man.

Four of Dick & Co. raced down to the water's edge. They came back, staggering under a big bucket covered on the top with bagging.

"What is this?" asked Dick.

"Ice cream," explained the doctor. "Mrs. Bentley's suggestion."

"We fellows of Preston High School feel ashamed of ourselves for having intruded," exclaimed Hartwell. "May we be permitted to withdraw?"

"At any time after ten o'clock," smiled Mrs. Bentley graciously. "We shall be very much disappointed if you leave us at present."

There was a clatter of dishes and spoons. Mrs. Bentley and Mrs. Meade presided over this part of the camp feast.

"We needn't ask you Gridley fellows if you've been having a good time," declared Hartwell presently. "But we hadn't any idea that we should intrude on an affair of this sort. In fact, while business must be barred now, I will admit that business was the object of our call."

"What sort of business?" inquired Dick Prescott.

"We came to challenge you fellows to a race," explained Big Chief Hartwell.

"A race?" chuckled Dave. "Queer how you've bit us where we live!"

"Do you think you can beat us in a canoe race?" asked Hartwell.

"Yes," Dick rejoined. "All we need to arrange is the date. We'll beat you on any date that you name! That isn't brag, please understand! It's merely the old, old Gridley High School way."

The young ladies applauded this sentiment merrily.

XVI. A SCALP-HUNTING DISAPPOINTMENT

"Want to try us out, Gridley?" hailed Big Chief Hartwell, from the Preston High School canoe.

It was nearly ten o'clock the next morning, but Dick & Co. had just finished putting their camp to rights after breakfast, for they had slept late after the feast.

"Do we want to try you out?" Dick answered laughingly. "Why, we don't have to do that. We shall be ready to hand you a beating, though, at any time you ask for it. We can't help beating you, you know. It's the Gridley way!"

"Brag is a good dog," derided Brown from the bow seat of the Preston canoe.

"We keep both dogs here," Dave shouted tantalizingly.

"Are you coming out to wallop us?" Hartwell insisted.

"Yes; if you insist upon it," Dick agreed. "But we don't like to do it."

"Get into your canoe and come out and see how much of your brag you can make good," was Hartwell's calm reply.

"What? Now?" Prescott inquired.

"'Now' is always the best time to do a thing," declared Mason, of Preston High School.

"Oh, no," smiled Dick, with a shake of his head. "You fellows have been out for some time this morning. You'll have to give us time to warm up properly."

"I didn't suppose Gridley needed a little thing like that," Hartwell taunted. "You Gridleyites are such sure winners, you know, that you ought not to need such a little thing as preparation."

"One of the reasons why Gridley wins," Dick retorted, "is that we always use common sense when entering sporting events. So we'll ask you to oblige us with a gift of our rights in the matter. In fifteen minutes we'll be ready for you."

Gently the canoe was launched in the water. Harry, with a remembrance of yesterday's events, called Towser, saying sternly:

"Stay right here, boy, and watch. Maybe you'll get the rest of Rip's shirt to-day."

"And maybe he won't," chuckled Dave. "That's what I call holding out false hopes to a dog. Rip won't venture within five miles of here to-day. Yet perhaps Towser will bag some other game for us."

"Into the canoe with you, you loitering braves!" called Big Chief Prescott firmly.

Away went the Gridley war canoe, gliding smoothly.

"Our craft is the 'Pathfinder'," called Hartwell, across the water. "What do you call your boat?"

"The 'Scalp-hunter'," smiled Dick. As a matter of fact he and his friends had forgotten to name the canoe, but he supplied the name on the spur of the moment. It made a prompt hit with his chums.

"You don't believe you can win any race with such paddling as yours, do you?" Hartwell called derisively.

"We don't show all our fine points to the enemy until the battle is on," was Prescott's amiable answer. "Even then you won't see all our best tricks; you'll be too busy paddling to keep in sight of us."

Only very gradually did Dick allow his crew to warm up to their work. The Preston boys soon paddled over to the middle of the lake, and there lay resting.

"Now, we'll go back and give them a brush," Dick murmured to his chums. "Don't exceed any orders that I give in the brush. Don't be at all uneasy if we find the Prestons going ahead of us."

"Haven't we got to win?" queried Dave.

"Especially after all the brag we've been throwing in their direction?" Tom supplemented.

"We'll win if we can do it easily," Dick answered. "Otherwise we won't."

"Then what becomes of our Gridley talk?" asked Greg.

"The difference is that this isn't a real race to-day," Prescott explained. "This is only a brush, and we're in it only to see what the Preston boys can show us about canoe handling."

At a rather slow, easy dip, the "Scalp-hunter" ranged up near the "Pathfinder."

"All ready there, Gridley?" called Hartwell rather impatiently.

"As ready as we're going to be," said Dick.

"Flying start, or from a stop?"

"Either," Dick nodded.

"Then," proposed Hartwell, "move along until your prow is flush with ours. When I give the word both crews paddle for all they're worth. Steer for the two blasted pines at the lower end of the lake."

"That's good," Dick agreed.

Very gently the war canoe ranged alongside, her bark sides, well-oiled, glistening in the sunlight. The Preston canoe was not of bark, but of cedar frame, covered with canvas.

Hartwell evidently wanted a wholly fair race, for he even allowed the "Scalp-hunter's" prow the lead of a couple of feet before he shouted:

"Go it!"

Amid a great flashing of paddles the two canoes started. The Preston High School craft soon obtained a lead of a foot or so, and held it. Now the contest was a stubborn one. Gridley gained two feet more.

"You see," called Dick in a low voice, "this is the Gridley way."

"Is it?" Hartwell inquired. "Hanky-pank!"

Plainly enough the last two words were a signal. Though the Preston High School boys did not make much visible change in their style or speed of dip, the "Pathfinder" now gained perceptibly. Within a minute she had a lead of a clean ten feet, and seemed likely to increase the interval.

"Why don't you come along, Gridley?" called back the big chief in the leading canoe.

"Too early," smiled Dick. Nor did he allow the Gridley boys to increase their speed. Presently the "Pathfinder" led by two lengths.

"Why didn't you tell us," Hartwell demanded over his shoulder, "that the much vaunted Gridley way is 'way to the rear?"

"We haven't reached the pines yet, have we?" Dick asked.

"No; and you won't, to-day, unless you push that clumsy tub of yours along faster."

"Don't wait for us," Dick answered goodnaturedly. "We'll be here after a little while."

"We'll wait for you when we land," laughed Hartwell. "Mumble bumble!"

Another secret signal, surely, for again the "Pathfinder" began to increase the distance from the Gridley rival.

"We'd better stop, and pretend we're only fishing," muttered Tom Reade, but Dick kept grimly silent. He was watching every move of the Preston paddlers.

"Why, they're leading us four lengths," muttered Darrin, in an undertone. But Prescott appeared unworried.

"We'll try to brace our speed, by and by," Dick answered.

"And so will the other fellows," Tom surmised. "They're not going at anything like their pace as yet."

For a quarter of a mile the canoes held the same relative position.

"Now, liven up," Dick called softly. "One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"

Catching the rhythm, Dick & Co. put in some good strokes, their paddling becoming faster and stronger. A length and a half of the interval was closed up.

"Porky-poo!" ordered Hartwell.

Answering, the Preston High School boys paddled as though fury now possessed them. They held the pace, too.

"Hit it up hard, now," Dick commanded. "One, two, three, four!"

Never had Gridley responded more nobly on any field of sport or other contest than now. The paddles flew, their wet blades gleaming in the air, only to disappear under the water again. Each recovery was swift, prompt rhythmic!

But Hartwell's crew was also showing the stuff of which it was made.

"Stop paddling—back water!" shouted Hartwell finally.

The "Pathfinder" lay on the water, motionless, only two yards from the shore on which stood the blasted pines.

At that same instant the Gridley High School "Scalp-hunter" was a trifle more than seven lengths astern.

"That was good and warming," smiled Big Chief Dick, as the second canoe came up.

"Yah, yah, yah!" retorted the Preston High School boys, betraying their delight in derisive grins.

"Where is that wonderful, all-conquering way you were telling us about?" chaffed Hartwell.

"You'll find out when we race," smiled Prescott calmly.

"When we race?" repeated Preston's big chief. "Didn't we race just now? Or do you consider that it wasn't a race just because you weren't in it?"

"It wasn't a race," Dick answered. "Merely a brush."

"Brush?" repeated Hartwell indignantly. "Didn't we challenge you fellows, and didn't you accept? Also, didn't you lose?"

"We lost the brush," Dick admitted.

"You lost the race to us," Hartwell declared stoutly. "Preston High School beat Gridley High School by several lengths!"

"Hardly that," Dick retorted coolly. "Preston High School merely distanced some boys from Gridley High School. You didn't defeat a Gridley High School canoe crew."

"Why didn't we?" the Preston High School big chief questioned.

"Because, if you recall all the chat we had last night, the 'Scalp-hunter's' crew isn't yet official. We haven't been authorized by the Athletic Council of Gridley High School."

"Is that the way you get out of it?" blurted Hartwell.

"No," Dick smiled. "That's the way we get Gridley High School out of the charge of defeat. As soon as we're authorized to represent Gridley High School as an official canoe crew, then you may claim any victory you can obtain over us. But you haven't beaten our high school yet for the reason that we don't officially represent Gridley High School. Isn't that all clear?"

"I suppose so," Hartwell assented disappointedly. "But we took it that we were racing the Gridley High School Canoe Club."

"Then after this you want to do more thinking," Dick laughed. "But don't feel too disappointed, Preston. Just as soon as we receive sanction from our Athletic Council we'll give you a race in earnest, and a chance for all the glory you are able to take away from us."

There was some further good-natured talk, after which the two canoe clubs separated.

Dick guided the "Scalp-hunter" back to camp. There, as soon as the canoe had been hauled ashore, Dave Darrin threw himself on the grass, remarking:

"This morning teaches us something! We're in no class with those Preston High School boys. We've no business racing, in the name of our school, before next summer!"

XVII. THE GOOD WORD BY WIRE

"We'll race within a few days," Dick declared serenely. "We've got to race soon, for our funds won't hold out long and we can't stay here all summer."

"The Athletic Council will thank us for losing the race," murmured Greg Holmes, ironically.

"We won't lose," Dick maintained, "unless you fellows throw the race against Gridley."

"Throw the race?" echoed Tom Reade indignantly. "Dick Prescott, do you think we'd do a thing like that?"

"I'm sure you wouldn't," their big chief admitted coolly.

"Do you mean to say that we didn't do our best this morning?" questioned Danny Grin.

"Our very best?" added Hazelton.

"We all did the best that was in us—this morning," Dick went on. "But we'll be a lot better prepared when we get into a real race."

"I don't believe I can paddle any harder than I did at the finish this morning," Reade argued. "In fact, I know I can't. My back aches yet with the work that I did."

"I don't doubt it," Dick smiled. "I know that my back aches."

"Then how are we going to win in any other race against Preston High School?" Darrin asked curiously.

"Did you fellows study the paddling work of the Prestons this morning?" Prescott asked.

"I saw their paddles ahead of us all the time," Greg murmured.

"That was a good place to have their paddles, for study," Dick laughed. "Couldn't you see, from their paddling, why they beat us with ease?"

"No! Could you?" challenged Tom.

"Yes. The Preston fellows dip their paddles better than we do. They dip so that the blade always cuts the breeze, instead of meeting it. When they recover they turn their paddles so as to slip them out of the water without throwing any back strain on the canoe's progress. I was studying their paddling work all the time, and I hoped that you fellows were doing the same."

"The Prestons have a lighter, swifter canoe, anyway," contended Dave.

"I think they have some advantage over us, that way," Dick nodded. "At the same time I am certain that we ought to beat Preston by beating their style of paddling."

"Beating their style of paddling?" echoed Reade. "Why, according to what you've told us we can't even equal their paddling."

"We're going to equal it," Dick answered, "and we ought to beat it. At two o'clock, fellows, we're going out for two hours of drill. Then I'll try to explain what I think I saw of the Preston superiority in dipping and recovery. If I really observed correctly, then we ought to be able to do much better, for I also think I see how to improve on the Preston High School paddle work enough to make their performance look almost clumsy."

"If you can do that," proclaimed Hazelton ungrudgingly, "then you're a wonder, Dick."

"We shall see," smiled the big chief.

"And if we don't see straight," mumbled Reade, "then Preston will hand us such a wallop that we won't even have the nerve to take up a challenge from Trentville High School."

For the rest of the morning Dick & Co. were much more thoughtful than usual. They had met defeat—a thing they didn't relish. Yet they knew, in advance, how much worse they would feel if they met a defeat when officially entered as a Gridley High School crew—for the honor of their school was dear to them all.

The noonday meal was over before one o'clock. Dick would not allow the "Scalp-hunter" to be put in the water a minute before two. He wanted to be sure that digestion had proceeded far enough so that they might do their best.

At the time appointed, however, he took the crew out on the water, and there carefully explained what he thought he had learned of the better paddling style of the Preston High School boys.

"You certainly did see a whole lot that I didn't see," Reade admitted, "and I believe that you saw it straight, too, Dick."

"We can certainly shoot the old canoe ahead faster, already," Dave murmured delightedly.

"Now, Dick, what are the improvements you thought you might have on the Preston style?" Danny Grin asked eagerly.

"To-morrow will be time enough to try out improvements, or any kind of frills," Prescott answered patiently. "For this afternoon let us confine ourselves to paddling as well as the Preston High School fellows do it. To-morrow we'll see if we can't do better than they do."

After a little more practice it was surprising how much more easily they took to the new style of paddling.

"Rest on your paddles for a few minutes," Dick ordered. "Get in some deep breaths. Then I'm going to pump up your speed to the best that you can do with the new stroke. We'll try to go to the hotel landing flying."

When all was ready Prescott gave the word.

"Now, your best speed, and all the strength you can properly put into the work. Go! One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"

Across the lake sped the canoe, Dick & Co. fully aware that they were now traveling at a speed that had been impossible to them that same morning.

"Stop paddling! Back water! Stop backing!"

With deft movements of his own paddle, Dick swung the canoe in gently against the float.

Out of the boathouse near by came Bob Hartwell.

"I've been watching you fellows," he called.

"That's fair enough," Dick answered.

"You're doing some better than you did this morning," Hartwell went on. "You've almost got our stroke."

"Almost?" repeated young Prescott, raising his eyebrows. "Haven't we improved a good deal on your Preston High School action?"

Bob Hartwell began to laugh.

"You fellows from Gridley are always world beaters, aren't you?" he demanded good-humoredly. "At first, I thought it was all brag on your part, and that you fellows were suffering from enlarged craniums complicated with bragitis. But now I begin to see that you talk confidently just in order to convince yourselves that you can't be beaten at anything. And I don't know that it's such bad 'dope,' either, as the sporting writers put it."

"Let's hear you try some," urged Dick.

"Brag?" asked Hartwell. "No; I don't believe I have mastered the idea well enough to do any really sincere bragging as yet. However, if you ever beat us at anything except brag, then I'm going to try to copy your form in the boasting line."

By this time Dick & Co. were dragging their canoe up onto the float.

"I hope Rip isn't sneaking anywhere about these grounds," muttered Danny Grin.

"Who's Rip?" Bob Hartwell asked curiously. Then: "Oh, I beg your pardon for being too inquisitive," as he saw Dick frown at Dalzell.

"I'm going to remain on the float, while you fellows go up into the hotel grounds," said Tom.

"All of you go, and I'll stay and watch your canoe," suggested Bob Hartwell. "That is, if you're willing to trust me as sentry."

"Of course we're willing," Dick responded. "But it's only right that one of our own crowd should do such work. Are you coming up with us, Hartwell?"

"Why, yes," Bob answered, "if I can't be of any service to you here."

Slowly the boys sauntered up through the walks. Then out on the porch came Manager Wright, waving a yellow envelope.

"That's probably the answer from the Athletic Council of Gridley High School," Dick explained, turning to Hartwell. "You don't mind if I run on ahead and leave you, do you?"

"You may run on ahead and leave me if you're as handy at running as you are at bragging," chuckled Bob. All of the boys in the group were soon at the porch. Mr. Wright descended the steps to hand Dick the envelope.

Dick tore open the envelope hurriedly.

"It's all right!" he called gleefully. "Mr. Howgate sends this word:"

"'Athletic Council approves and sanctions your representing Gridley High School on the water with your Canoe Club. Wish you success! Be careful not to risk lowering Gridley's standard in sports through recklessness.'"

"When do Gridley and Preston race in a regular event?" demanded Bob Hartwell promptly.

"Mr. Wright has been most kind to us about several matters," Dick answered. "I'd like to ask him what date will be most satisfactory."

XVIII. "WON'T WIN AGAINST A MUDSCOW"

"How can we help Mr. Wright by racing?" queried Hartwell.

"By enabling me to advertise a canoe race between high school boys as an attraction to bring added guests to this hotel," the manager explained for himself. "Let me see. This is Thursday. If the race were to be held day after to-morrow—saturday—would that give both crews time enough to get ready?"

"Saturday will suit Gridley," Dick answered promptly.

"And Preston also," guaranteed Bob Hartwell.

"At three in the afternoon on Saturday?" asked Mr. Wright.

"Yes, sir," Prescott nodded. "But will you have sufficient time to advertise, Mr. Wright?"

"Plenty of time," replied the manager, "if I send my letters away by tonight's mail. I will advertise in a Gridley paper, and also in Preston and Trentville. I will send copy to papers in a few other towns as well, and I will see to it that the railway folks know about it. Fortunately the railway people will attend to their own advertising, as it will give them some chance to bring extra passengers. Now, boys, does either crew wish to draw any expense money to help in preparing for the race?"

"Preston High School doesn't want any expense money, thank you, sir," Bob declared quickly. "Our fellows all have abundant funds."

"The Gridley High School crew is a lot of near paupers," Dick admitted with smiling candor.

"Then you may have——"

"Thank you, Mr. Wright," Prescott went on. "I don't know that we could use money if we had it, but in any case I am certain that we couldn't accept it from the hotel management without risk of sacrificing our standing as amateurs. We might be ruled out as 'professionals' for accepting money for the race."

"Pardon me," broke in Mr. Wright, as a bellboy handed him a telegram. As he read the message a smile appeared on his face.

"Perhaps this will put a different aspect on the matter," beamed the hotel manager. "This telegram is from Mr. Howgate, and says:"

"'Am mailing you check for forty dollars. Please allow Prescott, Captain Gridley High School Canoe Club, to draw on you for that amount, for boat uniforms and other expenses. Money voted by Council from High School Athletic fund.'"

"That's thoughtful," murmured young Prescott, wholly taken aback. "However, I don't believe we shall need the money."

"You ought to have some sort of uniform," suggested Hartwell. "We Preston chaps have canoe uniforms."

"We can paddle just as well without special uniforms," smiled Dick,

"But how would it look for good old Gridley High School?" hinted Bob generously. "Remember, in appearance, as well as in performance, you have the prestige and honor of your school to consider."

"I think you will do well to accept the money and get uniforms," Mr. Wright declared thoughtfully. "You will have to telegraph for them in order to have them here by Saturday."

"I have the A.B. Lollard catalogue up in my room," suggested Hartwell "I'll run up and get it, and you fellows can look it through and make a quick decision."

"When you have the choice of uniforms made," said Mr. Wright, "write your telegram and bring it to me to sign. The Lollard people know me, and will honor my order."

Now that matters had been arranged so as to be strictly within amateur usages, Dick, Dave and the others found that they had a new cause for interest as they glanced through the bewildering display of uniforms offered in the catalogue.

When the choice had been made Dick turned to young Holmes to say:

"Greg, run down to the landing to relieve Tom, and ask him to hurry up here. We want him, too, to approve our selection or to state his disapproval."

Reade arrived with a breathlessness that testified to his having run all the way. Needless to say, he heartily agreed with his chums as to the uniform selected by them.

The uniform chosen was not expensive. It consisted of sleeveless cotton shirts, white cotton trousers, knee-length, and with a red stripe down the sides, and thin, light boating shoes.

The total cost, per boy, was three dollars and eighty-three cents. Certainly not an expensive canoeing uniform! There would be some express charges to pay in addition.

"You'll have about fifteen dollars left for anything else that you may need," suggested Mr. Wright.

"Yes; but we don't wish to spend it," Dick replied. "It is only the thought of the Gridley High School that makes us decide on any uniform at all."

"You couldn't have been more modest," smiled Bob Hartwell, as he thought of the more expensive uniforms of his own crew.

The telegram was prepared. Mr. Wright signed it and sent it away. Then he hastened to his office to prepare his own advertising matter.

As the Gridley girls were nowhere to be seen about the grounds, Dick did not inquire for them. Instead he and his chums hurried back to the lake, where they put in another hour in hard practice. Prescott kept his crew out on the lake, in about the middle, where his low—spoken directions could not be heard from the shore.

"Are we going to win, now?" asked Dan Dalzell.

"How can we help it, when we are to wear such dazzling uniforms?" queried Reade.

"We've got to do a lot of hard work tomorrow, and on Saturday morning," Dave added. "I doubt if we yet paddle anywhere near the Preston High School performance."

"We'll work hard to-morrow," Dick agreed, "but after that we will have to be satisfied with what we've done. Saturday morning we don't want to do any hard work. Just enough exercise to keep our muscles supple for the real fray of the afternoon."

"We ought to stay out longer now," urged Hazelton.

"Do you fellows think so?" asked Dick thoughtfully. "It seems to me that we've done enough hard canoe work for to-day. We don't want to go stale from too much training."

"But we can't—we mustn't lose the race on Saturday," almost groaned Dave Darrin.

"Then we'll do better not to overtrain," said Dick quietly. "Unless I hear a big kick I'm going to turn the canoe toward our camp."

There was no objection, though some of the members of Dick & Co. frowned slightly. They had great confidence in Dick's judgment, yet he seemed to them over cautious in training.

"I wish it were Saturday night," murmured Tom Reade, lying on the grass full length, after they had landed.

"So that you'd know how it feels to be licked and to have your school licked, too?" inquired Danny Grin.

"Stop that talk!" ordered Tom gruffly. "We're not going to be beaten. We'd hardly dare show our faces again in Gridley if Preston High School took us into camp."

"Then how will the Preston fellows feel if we distance 'em?" Greg inquired.

"Oh, it won't matter as much over at Preston," Tom replied coolly. "Preston hasn't such a big reputation for winning athletic events as Gridley has."

"The more I think of it," muttered Dave, "the more I marvel at our cheek. We are barely more than freshmen. As yet we've entered the sophomore class only by promotion. Yet we get away from home and immediately start in to fight under the Gridley colors, just as though we were real juniors or seniors! My, but I'll hate myself if we get walloped Saturday afternoon!"

"We'd all dislike ourselves," smiled Dick Prescott calmly. "That is why we haven't any thought of allowing ourselves to be beaten, either by Preston or Trentville."

"I wonder if Trentville is as good as Preston?" asked Tom curiously.

"We can't tell until we see them work," suggested Greg.

"Who's going to eat, and when?" asked Dan. That started the crowd to making preparations for the camp supper. It was prepared in good time, and six healthy boys sat down to enjoy it. After that came a period of blissful idleness. Then, more or less reluctantly, the youngsters set about washing the dishes and setting the camp straight in general.

"Better throw some wood on the fire; it's getting pretty dark," suggested Dick. "I'll get the lantern and light it."

Gr-r-r-r-r! came the voice of Towser, in the near distance. It was followed by barks and yelps, all in the voice of Hazelton's bull-dog.

"What trouble has the pup gotten into?" demanded Harry, throwing an armful of wood on the campfire, then wheeling sharply.

Gr-r-r-r! Wow-wow! Woof! sounded closer at hand, accompanied by considerable noise in the underbrush.

"That pup's in trouble," declared Tom sagely. "Come along, fellows! Bring the lantern, Dick!"

Six boys, headed by Dick with the lantern, went to meet the bull-dog. They came upon Towser, growling in a most excited manner, threshing something about him in the bushes as he came toward them.

"Hold still, boy!" commanded Harry. "What is it, old chap?"

Then he came upon the dog. In the darkness it was not easy to make out what ailed Towser. But Prescott came closer to the dog with the lantern.

"Towser has his foot caught in a steel trap. I'm afraid his leg is broken," quivered Hazelton, as he threw himself on the ground beside his pet. "Hold still, boy! Let me take it off of you."

The dog permitted himself to be held while Tom Reade pried open the jaws of the steel fox trap, the chain to which the pup had dragged over the ground.

"That's a queer accident," commented Greg Holmes.

"Accident?" flamed Harry. "This thing is no accident. It was done on purpose, and I wouldn't need but one guess to name the two-legged cur that did this!"

All of the boys understood at once that Hazelton was accusing Fred Ripley of setting the trap.

Towser, as soon as released, limped a little, but proved that his leg was not broken, though it had been cut in the trap.

"Woof!" he exploded angrily, as soon as he found that he could run about on his injured leg. Then, showing his teeth, he growled menacingly and bounded through the woods, Dick & Co. following pell-mell.

"Towser knows that his enemy is still near!" called Harry exultantly. "Come on, fellows! We'll catch that sneak!"

A bull-dog's strong point is not his scent. He led the boys to the roadway, then halted, growling, plainly at fault.

Perched up in a tree not fifty yards away, well hidden by the foliage, were Fred Ripley and another youth. For a few moments they listened breathlessly to the pursuit, then appeared to feel more at their ease.

"You didn't work the trap trick quite right," whispered Fred to the youth in overalls beside him.

"Better luck next time," whispered back the stranger. "But no matter. I see how we can fix the canoe so that it couldn't win a race against a mudscow!"

XIX. WHAT AILED GRIDLEY?

"There's an automobile full of Gridley folks coming up to the lake to-day!" cried Susie Sharp excitedly as she ran to meet her girl friends at the landing stage.

"How do you know?" asked Laura eagerly.

"Mr. Wright has just received a telephone message, asking that arrangements be made to give them supper here. They're going back in the evening."

"Dick will be so pleased!" cried Laura. "All of our boys will be delighted, I imagine," replied Susie dryly.

"Of course; that is what I meant," explained Laura, flushing slightly.

"I know. You think that Dick Prescott is the only boy at Lake Pleasant," teased Miss Sharp.

"Stop that!" begged Clara Marshall. "Don't talk nonsense."

At one end of the float lay the "Pathfinder." At the other end lay the "Scalp-hunter," as shining as a thorough overhauling and a coating of oil could make her.

Over the latter canoe the Gridley High School girls had posted themselves as a sort of guard of honor.

Not that there was any suspicion that either of the canoes would be tampered with. High school and college sports are "clean." No underhanded tricks are resorted to by competitors for the sake of winning.

In the boathouse near by sat the members of both crews, mingling on the most friendly terms. With them were some of the officials of the race.

Dotted along the water front of the hotel grounds were many little groups of waiting spectators in chairs, on campstools or sitting on the grass.

In the morning buoys had been set on the lake at each end of a measured course. The course was to be a mile, around the upper buoy and returning to the starting line. The usual rules of boat and canoe racing were to apply as to clear water, fouling and the like, as well as the right of way at the upper buoy in case the rival canoes were close together.

"It's half-past two o'clock now," announced the starter, glancing at his watch.

"At two-forty," stated the referee, "I shall order both canoes into the water. As soon after that as each crew captain chooses he may put his men aboard and take such warming-up work as he may wish. At two-fifty-six the first gun will be fired, and both crews must come promptly to the judges' boat for alignment. At exactly three the second shot will be fired—the starting signal. Has either captain any questions to ask?"

Neither captain had any questions.

"Let me know, time-keeper, when it is two-forty," said the referee, going toward the door. "Both captains will be on the alert to avoid delays."

As the referee glanced out he saw that at least four hundred spectators were on hand. Two stage loads of men, woman, boys and girls had already arrived from Preston. Trentville also had sent a delegation.

"What's all that yelling with 'Gridley' in it?" cried Dick, jumping up and moving toward the door.

He was followed by his chums. They reached the float in time to see the automobile bus from Gridley coming down to the water front. In it were some thirty people of all ages.

"Oh, you Prescott!" yelled one irrepressible young man, through a megaphone. "Don't you dare make fools of us this afternoon! Gridley must win!"

"Don't worry!" Dick shouted back, waving his hand. "Gridley is going to win!"

"Yes, sirree!" called Bob Hartwell, laughingly. "Preston High School guarantees Gridley to be a winner—for second place!"

People now came crowding down upon the float to such an extent that Mr. Wright had to use the services of four hotel employs in coaxing them to keep back out of the way of the crews.

"No further admittance to the float, ladies and gentlemen!" called the hotel manager. "Keep it clear for the use of the crews!"

"Remember, Prescott," shouted a voice, "nothing but a win!"

"That's the Gridley way," Dick called back.

"Crew captains!" shouted the referee. "Ready to launch your craft! Time for a bit of preliminary practice."

"Take hold and launch!" cried Bob Hartwell, running forward.

Over into the water went the Preston High School canoe with a splash. The Preston boys began to fill their places.

"Gridley, stand by to launch!" called Prescott, "Slide her in, easily!"

As graceful as a thing of life the big war canoe slipped into the water, then lay there like a swan. Dave Darrin took hold of the bow-line, the pretty craft resting lightly against the float.

"Aren't you going to take your men out and warm them up, Prescott?" asked Referee Tyndall.

"No, sir; only for the last five minutes. We want only work enough to start the blood to moving well."

So only Dave stood by the canoe. Hatless, the Gridley High School boys paced up and down the float, awaiting word from Big Chief Prescott before embarking.

"I wish Dick would put our boys to work at once," murmured Belle uneasily. "Look what a fine showing Bob Hartwell's Preston fellows are making out there."

In truth the Preston boys were making a splendid showing with their brisk, steady, sturdy paddling. Many a cheer went up from shore for them.

"Time for us, Gridley," announced Prescott, when some minutes had passed.

Alertly his chums sprang to their posts. In a twinkling they were seated, each with his paddle in hand, holding lightly to the float.

"Shove off," said Dick, in a very low voice. As the "Scalp-hunter" started for the middle of the lake a wild Gridley yell broke loose.

But none of the boys paid heed. Each had his ears alert only for the orders of the captain.

Somehow, as the canoe moved out, each one had the same feeling. The "Scalp-hunter" was not moving quite as it should do.

"There is at least one of you fellows who isn't doing all he should, or just as he should," Dick murmured quietly. "Which one is it?"

There was no immediate response, though all five of the boys gave renewed attention to their work. Still, all of them had the same uneasy impression that there "was a screw loose somewhere."

"It's just as though we had a drag holding us back," Dick muttered disappointedly.

"Perhaps it's only because we're not quite warmed up yet," Tom hinted.

"No; it isn't that," Prescott responded. "I wish I knew just what does ail us. Take the second speed, fellows, and each of you watch his dip and recovery. Remember, it's the disciplined paddling that wins a canoe race."

At the next speed they went forward a little faster, to be sure. Yet there was a decided lack of speed or a pull-back somewhere.

"Don't lose your nerve, Gridley!" floated Hartwell's voice over the water as the Preston canoe shot by at a wind-jamming speed.

"Want a tow, Gridley?" hailed someone from shore.

"Next speed, fellows! Hit it up hard," called Dick Prescott. Perspiration from extreme nervousness broke out on his forehead.

Strive as he would, the crew captain of the Gridleys could not shake off the gloomy depression that assailed him. Something was wrong—radically wrong! The "Scalp-hunter" was not showing a winning gait!

"Best speed—and work, fellows!" called Dick, as quietly as ever, though in his voice there was a note almost of despair.

Now, indeed, the Gridley craft sped through the water. Yet all of her crew, and many people on shore, realized that the war canoe was not showing a prize-taking gait.

How Dick, Dave, Tom and the others worked, bending all their energies to the task! Yet all felt the same awful doubts.

Bang! The first gun had sounded.

"Down to the line, fellows!" Dick called. "Put in all the steam you can. I was wrong not to have warmed you up before. Get your blood to moving. One, two, three, four! Hump it! Hump it!"

Their bodies streaming with perspiration, breath coming fast, their faces deeply flushed, Dick & Co. bent to their paddling. They were moving fast, yet not as fast as they should be moving and back.

"What on earth can ail our boys?" cried Laura Bentley anxiously as she watched.

"They're moving fast," replied Clara Marshall.

"Yet not the way they should move," Laura insisted. "There's nothing about them of the easy, brisk form that Preston High School shows to-day."

"Don't hint at defeat!" shuddered Belle Meade. "We might be able to stand a Gridley defeat, but the boys couldn't."

Preston's canoe now rested on the water, ready to be aligned at the referee's order. Gridley's craft seemed to be straining as she neared the line.

Suddenly three sharp, short, shrill blasts sounded from the whistle of the judges' launch.

"Prescott!" roared the referee.

"Now, what's up, I wonder?" Dick asked himself, with another sinking feeling at heart.

The judges' boat was making fast time toward the Gridley High School entry.

XX. "DINKY-BAT! HOT SAIL!"

"Captain Prescott, what is wrong with your boat?" demanded Referee Tyndall, as the judges' launch stole up close.

"Something seems to be wrong with us, I'll admit, sir," Dick made answer. "I'll be greatly obliged to you, sir, if you'll tell me what it is.

"What are you towing?" asked the referee bluntly.

"Towing?" repeated Dick in bewilderment.

"That's what I asked," repeated the referee. "When you came down on this last spurt I'm sure that at one moment I saw a length of line rise above the water astern of you. Then, further back, I saw something else jerked to the surface."

"Why, we can't be towing anything," Dick insisted. "You saw our canoe launched."

"Late start, if you don't line the canoes up at once, referee," warned the time-keeper.

But Mr. Tyndall had his own views.

"The starting time will be delayed," he announced sharply. "Captain Prescott, take your canoe to the landing stage."

"All right, sir."

"Captain Hartwell you will follow."

"Very good, sir."

Going in to the landing stage Dick gave his crew an easy pace, yet they were soon alongside the float.

"Now, take your canoe out of water, Gridley," commanded the referee, stepping ashore from the launch. "I want a look at the craft."

Dick & Co. lifted the war canoe to the float bow first. Just as the stern cleared the water a cry went up from scores of throats.

For the referee had grasped a line made fast to the bottom of the canoe near the stern.

Hauling on that line he brought in several yards of it—then, at the outer end of the line came a light blanket, dripping. Through the middle of the blanket the end of the line had been secured.

Dick Prescott gasped. His chums rubbed their eyes. Bob Hartwell, who had landed, looked on in utter consternation.

"For the love of decency!" gasped Referee Tyndall. "Who rigged on a drag like that."

The blanket, towing below the surface, was a drag that could be depended upon, perhaps, to delay the canoe at least one length in every dozen that her crew could put her through the water.

"None of our fellows did that trick," Dick declared hotly. "You saw us launch our canoe, Mr. Referee, and she was clear when we launched her."

"I naturally wouldn't suspect the Gridley crew of rigging a drag on the Gridley canoe," remarked the referee dryly, as he followed the line back to the canoe. "See! Some scoundrel managed to twist a screw-eye into one of your frame timbers underneath. The line is made fast to the screw-eye. Captain Prescott, that could have been done by someone hidden under this float while your craft lay alongside. He could bring his mouth above water, under the timbers of this float. Then, with his hand and arm hidden under water the same rascal could easily reach out and fasten in the screw-eye."

"Prescott," gasped Bob Hartwell, in a disgusted voice, "I hope you don't believe that any of our fellows, or their friends, could be guilty of such contemptible work!"

"Hartwell," Dick answered promptly, resting a hand on the arm of the Preston High School boy, "I am offended that you should believe us capable of suspecting Preston High School of anything as mean as this. Of course we don't suspect Preston High School!"

The referee himself now twisted the screw-eye out of its bed in the canoe frame. Then he gathered up the wet cord and blanket and hurled the whole mass shoreward.

"I'd pay twenty-five dollars out of my own pocket," the race official declared hotly, "for proof against the scoundrel who tried to spoil clean sport in this manner!"

Nearly all of the crowd of spectators had now surged down close to the float.

"I think we could make a pretty good guess at who is behind this contemptible business," snarled Danny Grin, his face, for once, darkened by a threatening frown.

"Who did it?" challenged Referee Tyndall. Dalzell opened his mouth, but Prescott broke in sharply with the command:

"Be silent, Dan! Don't mention a name when you haven't proof."

"Can it possibly be anyone from Preston?" asked Hartwell anxiously. "If it is, I beg you, Dalzell, to let me have the name—privately, if need be. I'd spend the summer running down this thing."

"I know whom Dalzell has in mind, Hartwell," Dick rejoined. "It's no one from within a good many miles of Preston, either. But we have no right to make accusation without an iota of proof."

"Then you decline to allow the name to be furnished?" blurted the referee.

"I refuse, sir, for the same reason that you would," Dick answered coolly. "Only a coward, a knave or a fool will accuse another person without some reasonable proof to offer. No great harm has been done, anyway. The drag was found in time."

"Get your canoe out, Hartwell," ordered Mr. Tyndall. "This time, when we launch them, we'll make sure that both craft are in good order."

When the "Pathfinder" was hauled up on the float she was found to be free from any evidences of trickery.

"Now, launch, and we'll watch each canoe until it puts off," announced Mr. Tyndall. "Captain Prescott, will ten minutes be enough for you before the sounding of the first gun?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'd rather you gave Gridley plenty of time, sir," urged Bob Hartwell. "If we can't win from Gridley High School fairly, we don't want to win at all."

"First gun, then, at three-twenty-eight," called Mr. Tyndall. "Second gun at three-thirty."

Slowly the "Pathfinder" followed the "Scalp-hunter" out into midlake.

"How does your craft go now, Gridley?" hailed the big chief from Preston.

"She goes like a canoe now," Dick called back joyously.

Then he set his chums to easy paddling. All six of Dick & Co. felt a thrill of joy at realizing the difference in the canoe's behavior.

"We'll win, all right," predicted Prescott joyously.

"If we don't, we'll make motions that look like putting up a hard fight, anyway," Tom answered him.

"I wish I had my foot on the neck of the cur that rigged the drag!" muttered Darrin vindictively.

"I don't," Dick answered quietly. "The fellow who rigged the drag probably wasn't the same fellow who planned the scheme."

"I'm going to provoke a fight with a certain party, one of these days, anyway," threatened Dave, his brow dark with anger.

"Forget it now," Dick urged. "The fellow whose mind is ruled by an angry passion isn't in the best form for athletic work. Banish all unpleasant thoughts, all of you fellows."

By degrees the big chief from Gridley warmed up his braves in the war canoe. He had them going in earnest, at nearly their best speed, just as the first gun was fired—a pistol in the hand of the starter on board the judges' boat.

"We'll go over there in our best style," Prescott called. "Try to give the people on shore something worth looking at—they've waited long enough to see something! One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"

In absolute precision the Gridley High School boys moved at their work, their swift, deft, strong strokes sending the birch bark craft darting over the water in a fashion that brought a cheer from shore.

"Deep breathing just as soon as we're at rest at the line," Dick warned his chums. "At the start try to make the first breath carry you for four strokes!"

In a short time the referee had the canoes with their noses at the line, and at an interval from each other satisfactory to him.

"Thirty seconds to the start!" called the time-keeper. "Twenty seconds!"

In the Gridley canoe each boy sat bent slightly forward, his paddle raised at the proper position.

"Ten seconds!" called the starter. Then——

Bang! Away shot the canoes. Over all other sounds could be heard Dick's low-toned:

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"

The Preston boys heard him, and Dick noted, with amusement, that they unconsciously adapted their own stroke to his count.

"Cut that numeral business," grunted Bob Hartwell, across the water. "You're queering our fellows."

"They mustn't listen to our signals," Dick laughed back. "One, two, three, four!"

"Come on, fellows; get ahead of that Gridley crowd, where we can't hear 'em," urged Hartwell. "Hanky pank!"

At that the Preston canoe managed to get a slight lead. Dick did not vary his count, however. He had no objection to being led slightly to the upper buoy.

Soon, however, Preston High School made the distance two lengths. Dick began to count a bit faster.

"Put a little more steam on, fellows," he urged.

So the gap was closed up somewhat. But Hartwell, glancing back, called:

"Mumbleby hoptop!"

Whatever that signal meant the Preston boys were now paddling a stronger and slightly swifter stroke. Dick, too, increased the stroke.

Despite it all, however, Preston was now securing more and more of a lead by almost imperceptible gains. Dave Darrin, in the bow seat of the war canoe, eyed the water interval between the two canoes with a frowning glance.

"More steam!" Dick urged. As the Gridley canoe went creeping up on the rival craft, Hartwell muttered another of his ridiculous code signals.

"Preston hasn't let itself out yet, and we're next door to panting already," Tom Reade told himself, with a sinking heart. "We were fools to enter as a school crew without more practice!"

At this time Dick Prescott was the only one in the war canoe who serenely ignored all doubts. Of course he couldn't be sure that he would win. In fact, all the chances appeared against him.

But the absurd habit, as it seemed to others, of feeling that Gridley could not be beaten, was strong upon him.

More than half way to the upper buoy Preston High School led by more than two lengths.

"Get on, Gridley! Get on! Do something!" came the distant yet distinct yells from shore. Many spectators, in carriages, or on bicycles, were following the rival crews.

"Prescott, what ails you?" came a wailing cry from shore.

There were other discouraging calls, too. Had Dick been less strong in his faith in Dick & Co. he might have gone to pieces under the nagging.

Bob Hartwell, glancing smilingly back over one shoulder, saw the Gridley boys working.

"We've got 'em stung, fellows," called the Preston High School big chief to his crew. "Take it easy, but don't let 'em gain anything. We won't try to increase the lead until we're on the last half of the home stretch."

A hundred and fifty yards from the upper buoy Dick passed the word:

"Now, hump a bit. We want to worry 'em as we get to the buoy. Make it hot for Preston! One, two, three, four!"

Some of that distance was covered. As Preston rounded the buoy Hartwell and his crew came face to face with Gridley, about to round it.

"One, two, three, four!" almost drawled Dick. He had already passed the signal to his own men, not one of whom obeyed his slow count, but on the other hand, Preston High School for the space of about fifteen seconds, slowed to that crawling count.

"Brace up, you dubs! Paddle!" roared Hartwell. "Never mind that funeral march. Dipperty-dip!"

Preston recovered from its brief trance and shot ahead. But Gridley was already around the buoy and coming fast.

Half way home from the upper buoy found Preston going strongly, two and a half lengths ahead of Gridley High School.

"Oh, you, Prescott, get up and run!" came the dismal, desperate advice from shore.

As he mentally measured the distance, now, to the finishing line, Dick Prescott's eyes flashed.

"Now, your reserve power, fellows!" he called in a low, tense voice. "Make every stroke count! Full muscle! Never mind your backs! One, two, three, four!"

A splendid showing Gridley made. Soon the lead of the rivals was less than two lengths.

"Steam-ho!" called Hartwell. "Hot sail!"

Preston's paddles flashed in the sunlight in unison, in the best, swiftest stroke they had yet shown. Over on shore the Preston boosters let their lungs loose in cheering yells.

"Wait for a tugboat, Prescott!"

"You're up against the real thing, Gridley!"

"Come on in, Hartwell! The other canoe is tied to the shore!"

"More steam!" ordered Dick. "More steam! Your best, prize winning stroke now."

Again Hartwell glanced backward. Now the prow of the war canoe was less than half a length from the stern of the Preston craft.

Up and up it came. Hartwell, in a burst of energy, shouted his prize signal:

"Dinky-bat! Hot sail!"

The new spurt carried Preston High School ahead once more.

XXI. NATURE HAS A DISMAL STREAK

"Come on, Prescott!"

"Or else sink!"

"Don't come back to Gridley!"

The cries from shore, as the Gridley boosters noted the effects of the fine Preston work, were not encouraging.

"Preston High School wins!"

Indeed, it looked as though Hartwell's craft must be the winner. Shorter and shorter became the distance to the finish line.

True, Big Chief Dick was bringing his prow close up to the stern of the "Pathfinder" once more, but Preston evidently had a little reserve steam left as yet.

"Go it, Hartwell! Go it! You win! Hurrah!"

Suddenly over the water traveled Dick Prescott's command:

"Now, then, Gridley! Break your backs!"

This time there was no counting, nor was there any need of any. From Dave back to Dick all six bent their full strength and wind to the task of making the "Scalp-hunter" dart over the water. It was a grueling, killing pace that Dick had set for his crew, but it did not need to last long. The finish line was close at hand.

Hartwell saw the "Scalp-hunter's prow steal up on a level with the centre of his own canoe.

"Go it, fellows—one last, big spurt!" he yelled.

A sudden yell from shore told another story. The war canoe's nose was now six feet further along than the bow of the Preston canoe.

"Come on, Dick! Come on! Come on!"

"Speed! The last swift dash!" yelled Dick Prescott. "Bend to it!"

Hartwell tried to call to his crew, but could not make himself heard. The yelling from the shore, and from the boats nearby drowned out all other sounds.

The two canoes seemed to be rivaling express trains in their speed. Then the cheers of one faction drowned the groans of the other.

Gridley High School had shot across the finish line by a length and a half lead over Preston High School.

Just as the "Pathfinder" left the line astern there came from the Preston craft a sound like the report of a pistol.

One of the Preston braves had snapped his paddle off just above the blade.

As the "Scalp-hunter" swung about, Dick saw that broken-off blade floating on the water.

"I'm glad that paddle didn't snap until you had crossed the line," Dick panted. "If it had, the real result would have been in doubt."

"Your crew won, Prescott!" called Bob Hart well in a husky voice. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," returned Dick. "You're surely a generous enemy."

"Rivals, this afternoon, but enemies never!" protested young Hartwell.

Now a blast from the whistle of the launch recalled the two canoes. Standing in the bow of the launch, Referee Tyndall announced so that those on shore might hear plainly:

"Gridley wins by a length and a half!" From the shore came a wild cheer. There was also a frenzied waving of handkerchiefs and of parasols. Though the Gridley boosters might be few in number, they were great in enthusiasm.

As the "Pathfinder" started in for the landing float a crowd made a rush to meet the canoes. It was not, however, the Preston craft, that the crowd wanted, for this was a Gridley crowd.

Noting the fact with his keen eyes, Dick gave the word for easy paddling. Then he swung the war canoe about, heading toward camp.

That proved not at all to the crowd's liking.

"Come back, Prescott! This way, Gridley! We want you!"

"Why don't you land, Dick?" queried Tom Reade.

"What! Land at the mercy of that crowd!" exclaimed Prescott. "That is a Gridley crowd. They're so pleased over our winning that what they'd do to us might be worse than what they'd have done if we had lost."

"Where are you going?" asked Dave, somewhat disappointed.

"Camp is good enough for us, I guess. It's a safe place, anyway," Prescott replied.

A few minutes later the "Scalp-hunter" touched lightly on the beach in front of camp.

Towser greeted them with a joyous bark.

"So you've been watching the race instead of the camp, have you?" demanded Tom, eyeing the dog in mock reproach.

"Oh, but I'm tired!" muttered Darrin, after they had beached the canoe. "This green grass looks inviting."

He threw himself down at full length on the grass.

"Up, for yours," commanded Dick, grasping him by one arm and pulling Dave to his feet. "Don't you know that your blood is almost at fever heat after the strain of the race? Do you want to get a chill that will keep the whole camp up to-night?"

"I want to lie down," muttered Darrin. "And I want to sleep."

"Then get off your racing clothes, put on your other clothes, then roll yourself well in your blankets and lie down in the tent," Dick ordered. "That's what I'm going to do."

Now that the strain was over every member of Dick & Co. found himself so weary that the putting on of ordinary clothes was a process which proceeded slowly. After a while, however, all six had rolled themselves in their blankets and lay on the leaf-piled floor of the tent.

All but Dick and Harry were asleep, presently, when an automobile stopped near the camp.

"Anyone at home?" called Referee Tyndall, poking his head in past the flap of the tent and viewing the recumbent lads. "All here? That's good. I'm a committee of one, sent over here by the Gridley folks at the hotel. They're ordering a supper and they want you boys to come over promptly. You're to be the guests of honor."

"Will you be good enough to present the Gridley people with our best thanks," returned Dick promptly, rising to greet the referee, "and ask them very kindly to excuse us? Assure them, please, that we're in strict training, with more races to come, and that banquets would perhaps spoil us for the next race."

"I'm afraid I'll have difficulty in getting that message through," protested Mr. Tyndall. "Your Gridley friends are bound to have you over at the hotel."

"They can't get us there with anything less than the state militia," declared Dave, who had awakened. "We can fight and whip any smaller body of armed men that tries to drag us away from our rest. Our friends are good to us but can't they understand that we ache?"

"You do look rather played out," assented Mr. Tyndall, after surveying the various wrapped bundles of high school boy humanity. "But can't you raise enough energy to come over in an hour?"

"If the Gridley people are really our friends," protested Tom Reade, opening his eyes, "they'll let us sleep through until to-morrow morning. We nearly killed our tender young selves in that last big spurt, and now we must rest our bones and aching muscles."

"But what can I tell the folks at the hotel?" begged Mr. Tyndall.

"Tell 'em that we appreciate their kindness," laughed Dick.

"All right. I'll tell them—something," murmured Mr. Tyndall, as he turned away.

"Up, all of you fellows!" commanded Dick Prescott. "This doesn't look very gracious on our part, when an entertainment has been arranged for us. We'll go, and attend to our aches to-morrow." But when the referee of the afternoon noted how stiffly they all moved he found himself filled with compassion.

"Don't you try to come over, boys," he urged. "You're too stiff and sore to-night. Some people, myself included, don't realize that fifteen-year-old boys haven't the bodily stamina of men of twenty-five. You did a splendid bit of work this afternoon, and now you're entitled to your rest."

"We'll get over there, somehow," Dick promised.

"No; you won't. Don't you try it. The Gridley visitors would be brutes to try to drag you out to-night. I shan't let you go, and I shall tell the home folks that you're enjoying a well-won rest."

"But don't you let any of the Preston High School fellows know how crippled you found us," begged Dave Darrin.

"What would you care, if I did?" laughed Mr. Tyndall. "You fellows won the race, didn't you? And I'll wager that the Preston boys are feeling a whole lot worse than you are. Don't come! Good night."

"Tyndall is a brick to let us off," sighed Tom gratefully, as he sank down once more.

Later on Dick & Co. emerged from the tent, started a fire, and had supper, though they did not pay great attention to the meal.

"I wouldn't want to race every day," grunted Reade, as he squatted near the fire after supper.

"If we did," Dick retorted, "we'd speedily get over these aches and this stiffness."

For an hour or so the boys remained about the fire. Dan Dalzell was the first to slip away to his blankets. Hazelton followed. Then the movement became general. Soon all were sound asleep.

Nor did any sounds reach or disturb them for hours. Not one of the sleepers stirred enough to know that the sky gradually became overcast and that there was a distant rumbling of thunder.

Hardly had the campfire burned down into the general blackness of the night when an automobile runabout, moving slowly and silently, stole along the roadway.

In it sat the son of Squire Ripley. Fred, having brooded for hours over the failure of his scheme to make Dick & Co. lose the canoe race, had at last decided to pay a stealthy, nocturnal visit to the camp of the boys he disliked, with the express purpose of doing whatever mischief his hands might find to do.

His father's family car and automobile runabout were both at the hotel garage, and at his disposal. Soon Fred Ripley was speeding away over the country road in the automobile runabout.

As he neared the camp he extinguished the running lights, then went on slowly so as to make no noise. At last he stopped the car.

Gr-r-r-r! came out of the darkness. Faithful Towser was still at his post. He came forward slowly, suspiciously out of the darkness. He may have recognized his enemy, for Towser came close to the car, showing his teeth in an ugly fashion.

Fred lost no time in starting his car forward. "I wish that pup would have the nerve to get in front of the car," he muttered as he drove slowly away from the camp. "What fun it would be to run over the brute! I don't dare to get out of the car while he's on guard. I forgot about him for the time being, though goodness knows I've cause to remember him."

Towser uttered one or two farewell growls. Two hundred yards further on Fred let out the speed in earnest, at the same time switching on the electric running lights.

"I'll come back late to-night," Fred reflected. "I'll leave the machine a little way down the road, and come up here on foot. In the meantime I'll think of some scheme to get square with Dick Prescott and his crowd. I'll hunt up a good stout club, too, and then if that confounded dog is troublesome I'll settle him."

For an hour or more Fred ran the car at random over one country road after another.

"I wonder if that pup ever goes to sleep," he muttered. "I'd really like to know. If I'm going back that way to-night I'd better be turning about, for there is a bad storm coming."

Turning the car, he drove swiftly back again. In about twenty minutes he reached a part of the road directly above the camp.

Overhead the lightning was flashing brightly. Heavy thunder followed each flash. Large drops of rain were falling, but Fred, bent on his evil errand, did not mind. At any rate he was not afraid of lightning. Aided by the flashes he searched along the side of the road until he found a branch of a tree that he shaped into a club with his knife.

"I won't wake Prescott's muckers," he reflected, "and I want to be sure to attract the dog's notice if he is on guard."

A broad, white streak of lightning showed the tent from the road as Ripley, armed with the club, drew nearer to it.

Fred halted. "They're all asleep, the muckers!" he muttered. "I'm glad of that. Where is that dog? Why doesn't he come around? I'm ready for him now."

Fred stole stealthily along, keeping a sharp lookout for the bull-dog.

Suddenly the sky was rent by a vivid flash of lightning so glaring that the lawyer's son covered his eyes with his hands.

Bang! Crash! Almost instantly the thunder followed the flash.

"It's time to be getting out of here if I don't want to get drowned on the way back to the hotel," Ripley decided. "I'll have to postpone getting square with Prescott. Besides, the storm will waken those fellows and I don't want to be caught here."

There came another flash, that descended near the water. The crashing noise of the thunder came at the same instant.

Fred, facing the tent, saw the bolt strike the ridge pole. Evidently the current ran down one of the poles, for he saw the bluish white electric fluid running over the ground, coming from inside the tent. The tent sagged, then fell.

"Gracious!" shivered this evil traveler of the night. "It will be a wonder if that bolt didn't stretch them all out. I wonder if it killed Dick Prescott and his crowd?"

Uncontrollable curiosity seized upon Fred. Turning about he ran toward the tent. Violently he tugged at the canvas. As he lifted it another sharp flash showed him the six Gridley High School boys lying motionless in a row.

"The lightning did finish them!" gasped young Ripley, overcome with fright and awe.

XXII. FRED IS GRATEFUL—ONE SECOND!

For some moments Fred Ripley stood there, spellbound, regarding the still figures of Dick & Co. with fascinated fear.

Most of the time he stood in darkness, but as the flashes of lightning came he again saw the six motionless figures. Even the fearful crashes of thunder failed to arouse the sleepers.

"Oh, this is grewsome!" gasped Ripley at last, the coward in him coming to the surface strongly. "I can't stand this any longer!"

Unconsciously he spoke aloud, his voice rising to a wail. Then as he let the folds of canvas fall, a voice inside called angrily:

"Quit that! I want to get out."

It was Dave Darrin's voice, and Dave was the quickest-tempered one of the six boys.

Fred knew that it behooved him to get away from the spot at once. There was a wriggling under the canvas. Ripley turned to flee.

Gr-r-r-r! Towser stood barring his path.

"Hurry up, Darrin!" appealed Fred, as Towser moved closer, showing his teeth. "Hurry! Or this dog will chew me up."

"Who's there?" called Darrin, thrusting his head out of the collapsed tent, then drawing the rest of his body after.

Another flash of lightning showed Ripley's frightened face.

"Oh, you, is it?" uttered Dave in a tone full of scorn.

"Hurry and quiet this bull-dog!" the lawyer's son insisted.

"Don't worry," retorted Darrin calmly. "Towser wouldn't sink his teeth very deep in you! He's a self-respecting dog."

Now that one of the members of the canoe club was on the spot, the bull pup displayed less ferocity. He contented himself with eyeing Fred, ready to spring at a second's notice.

"What has happened?" demanded Dave, looking rather bewilderedly at the tent.

"Your shack was struck by lightning," Fred answered glibly, and then, ever ready to lie, he added, "I was passing by in the car, in a hurry to get back to the hotel, and I saw the thing happen. The lightning ran along the ridge-pole, then down into the tent and out at the sides along the ground. I'm afraid same of your fellows have been struck. At first I thought all of you had been killed, so I ran down here to investigate."

But Dave paid little heed to the last part of this statement. He had seized hold of one side of the canvas, holding it up.

"Dick!" he called lustily. "Tom, Greg, Dan, Harry!"

There was no response. The thunder continued to boom louder than ever.

"Hold this canvas up," Dave Darrin ordered sharply, and Ripley, knowing that Towser was eyeing him, obeyed. Inside crawled Darrin, shaking each of his friends in turn and calling to them.

"I can't wake 'em! I can't get 'em to speak," reported Darrin, crawling out again, his face white with anguish. "I'm afraid they've been——"

"Yes," nodded Ripley, in a hoarse voice. "They're dead!"

"How did you say you got here?" demanded Dave suddenly. "In a car?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll prop the canvas up to let air inside the tent, and then you'll drive me to the Hotel Pleasant as fast as you can go!"

"Maybe I won't," jeered Fred.

"Maybe you will," retorted Dave Darrin indignantly. His voice rang with righteous contempt. "Either you'll stand by at a time like this, or I'll fall upon you tooth and nail—with the very able help of the dog!"

Gr-r-r-r! approved Towser, again showing his teeth.

"I—I'll take you!" quavered Ripley.

"Of course you will," nodded Darrin. "Wait till I see if the lantern is all right."

He crawled into the tent, found the lantern and struck a match. Curiously enough the lantern had not been injured. Placing the lantern outside, Darrin sharply commanded his chance companion to aid in propping the canvas so that those underneath could get air.

"Now, come along," ordered Darrin, when this had been done. "Towser, watch the—the gentleman!"

Thus they started up the slope, when they heard a growl just ahead of them. In the same instant Towser, uttering a yelp, turned and darted away as fast as he could go.

"Now, we'll see whether you'll boss me," grunted Fred Ripley, brandishing the club that he held in his left hand. "Your dog is no good any more."

"Neither will you or I be any good any more if we don't keep our nerve," uttered Darrin quietly, as he turned the lantern's rays against the object in their path. "There's only one thing in the world Towser would run away from, and that's just what is ahead of us—a mad dog!"

At this instant Fred, too, caught sight of the object in their path. A large dog, of doubtful breed, stood before them, its head down, but its bloodshot eyes watching them cunningly. It's dripping jaws carried conviction that the animal was rabid.

Fred did not cry out or stir. He was too frightened to do either. But Dave very stealthily put down the lantern. Then, his muscles wholly steady, he snatched up an eight-foot pole that lay on the ground.

"Now, come on, you beast!" challenged Darrin, making a slight thrust with the pole.

Enraged at the challenge, the rabid dog sprang forward, its mouth wide open. Without faltering, Dave made a thrust that jammed the pole hard into the animal's mouth.

Staggered by the blow, the dog fell back on its side. It never rose again, for now Darrin used the pole as a club, raining down blows upon the dangerous animal until he was sure that there was no life left in it.

"Darrin, that was wonderful nerve of yours!" gasped Fred with admiration wrung from him in spite of himself. "And you saved my life!"

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Dave grimly, as he picked up the lantern. "Don't you believe I'll ever brag about having saved your life. Now to the car, and be quick."

Fred, stung by the contemptuous answer, felt his resentment raging. He darted forward so swiftly that he might have been able to leap into the car and get away with it, had not something else happened.

For Towser, though he had run away from a rabid specimen of his own species, had circled about. Now he leaped into the automobile, growling, just as Fred would have sprung in.

"That's right, Towser. Hold the sneak!" called Dave, arriving on a run and leaping into the car. "Now, Ripley, hang you, do some quick and honest work!"

"Kick that dog out of the car first," pleaded Fred.

"I won't," Darrin retorted. "The dog is my guarantee for your good behavior to-night."

As soon as might be they ran around the lower end of the lake, then raced for the hotel.

There Dr. Bentley was aroused. While he was dressing he sent a bell-boy to order his own big car.

Just when Ripley vanished from the scene no one about the grounds or the hotel seemed to know or care.

Dr. Bentley, dressed in record time, came down.

"Now, we'll drive fast, Darrin," the doctor announced, as he dropped his bag into the car and seated himself at the wheel. "Struck by lightning, did you say? It was a fearful storm, but it is stopping now."

Ere they reached the camp the stars were out. There was no sign of nature's dangerous mood.

Dr. Bentley first of all ordered that the canvas be lifted and cast aside. The tent was badly wrecked and burned, though the rain had prevented the rising of flames that might have burned the bodies of the five unconscious boys.

"Throw your coat off, Darrin, and do the work of four men for a few minutes," said Dr. Bentley tersely.

"I'll do the work of a hundred," replied Dave, "if I can find the way."

After some minutes of hard work Tom Reade opened his eyes. Shortly after this the puffing of one of the hotel launches was heard. For the doctor, while hurrying into his clothes, had left word with Mrs. Bentley what to do. The launch brought another and much larger tent, with cots, bedding and other things, as well as four capable workmen.

Greg came to next. Neither he nor Reade, however, were good for much at the time. By the time that the new tent was up, and the cots arranged those who were still unconscious were carried in there. Then Greg and Tom were helped into the drier quarters.

It was Dick who longest resisted the efforts to bring him to consciousness. At last, however, he opened his eyes.

"It was a mercy that none of you were killed," uttered Dr. Bentley devoutly. "A little bit more of the current and you might have been done for."

But now that he had attended to his young friends, Dr. Bentley did not think of returning to the hotel. He remained through the night, despite the fact that his charges became steadily stronger and at last went sound asleep.

In the morning, before eight o'clock, the launch was over again on that side of the lake. This time it brought Mrs. Bentley, Mrs. Meade and the girls, as well as a lot of daintily prepared food fresh from the hotel kitchen.

"This is a mighty pleasant world!" sighed Dick Prescott, full of luxurious content.

"Yes when you have some good friends in the same world with you," Tom added.

Dave and Dan slipped away to remove the body of the rabid dog killed during the night.

The tent they had brought with them from Gridley would never be of service again, so Dick & Co. were highly delighted when informed that Manager Wright begged them to accept the use of this larger, finer tent, and also of the cots, during their stay at the lake.

XXIII. TRENTVILLE, THE AWESOME

As the "Scalp-hunter" swung around the upper buoy and headed down the course she had a lead of a clean two lengths over the Trentville High School canoe.

There was a larger crowd on the lake to-day and more steam and gasoline craft were out.

As Dick & Co. shot down the line, still leading, steam and pneumatic whistles broke forth into a noisy din.

Over on the western shore, on the grounds of the larger hotel, only one little knot of Gridley people stood to watch and cheer. These were the Bentleys, Mrs. Meade and the same group of girls that had watched the other race.

No excursion had come up from the home town to-day, for no one in Gridley had believed that their high school youngsters could defeat the seasoned Trentville High School canoe crew.

Only two days before Trentville had won from Preston High School by nearly five lengths.

What show was there for Dick & Co. or for Gridley High School?

Hence the smallness of the Gridley crowd present.

However, some hundreds of people who looked on were eager only to see the best crew win, as they had no ties binding them either to Gridley or to Trentville.

But the unexpected had happened.

In the first place, when the Trentville canoe and crew arrived at the lake Dick Prescott had insisted that Preston High School and Trentville High School race together first.

Thus he had opportunity to watch the Trentville work. Moreover, by delaying his own race against Trentville, Dick had had more time to train and drill his crew into form, both as to paddling and endurance.

He had profited well by these opportunities. To-day, from the outset, he had handled his crew so that a slight lead over Trentville had been maintained. This had been gradually increased, and now that the buoy had been turned with such a handsome lead, none on shore or in the other boats believed that Trentville High School had any further chance.

Pascal, however, who captained the Trentville canoe, had another view of the matter. It was Ted Pascal's third summer in a canoe. He had drilled more than one crew, and knew all the ins and outs of the sport.

"I guess Prescott thinks he has the whole thing, by this time," smiled Pascal to himself. "Poor chap. He's a nice young freshman, and I hate to fool him. But we'll soon begin our work. The Gridley crew must be well tired by now."

Presently Ted Pascal passed the word quietly over the heads of his perspiring but confident crew.

"Tighten up a little bit, now—a little bit at a time," was the message Pascal gave his followers.

By the time that the home course had been half covered it was noted that the "Slip-over," as the Trentville craft was named, was creeping up fast on its rival.

Dick, too, quickly became aware of this.

"Trentville is showing a lot of new form, fellows, and coming right up on us," Dick called quietly. "This race isn't won! The fact, we're near to losing it. Form! form! muscle! Don't fumble again, Hazelton! One, two, three, four!"

But still the Trentville High School craft continued to creep up on them. The Gridley High School girls on shore became so anxious that they forgot to wave their handkerchiefs and cheer.

"More push! Power, as well as speed," Dick panted, for now the grueling speed was beginning to tell on even the leader of Dick & Co.

The prow of the "Slip-over" now passed the stern of the "Scalp-hunter." Reade saw this, too, and uttered a groan.

From the shore and the boats holding spectators came new volleys of cheers, for most of these spectators were wholly impartial, and wanted only to see an exciting race.

"Let yourself out, Gridley!" boomed a voice over the water.

Dick and Co. were doing their best—or what amounted to much the same thing—believed that they were, at any rate.

Yet the Trentville canoe crept steadily up, then led by a quarter length, a half length. It looked as though the Trentville crew would soon be a length ahead of the Gridley boys.

Everyone of Dick's chums was desperate. So was Dick himself, but he kept as cool as possible.

"Bring our prow up!" he called steadily. "No matter what happens, bring our prow up flush with Trentville!"

By some miracle the Gridley boys found strength enough left in their arms and backs to accomplish this feat.

Then the "Scalp-hunter" dropped behind again, an inch at a time.

"We caught 'em once!" called Dick in an even voice. "We must do it again. One, two, three, four! Hump! hump! Put in the power!"

By inches the "Scalp-hunter" crawled up, but Dick & Co. felt completely exhausted.

"You've been doing well, kid," called the even voice of Ted Pascal over the water, "but you can't do any more. We take this race!"

"Do you?" dared Dick.

"Yes; you're all in, and we have reserve steam left."

"Have you?" snapped young Prescott. "Then now is the time to prove it."

Taking a deep breath, Dick Prescott shouted:

"Remember what Gridley demands! No defeats. Dash ahead, Gridleys! Now—go in and kill yourselves for the honor of your school!"

Dick was far from meaning that literally, but his quick eye had measured the remaining distance of the course.

He was captain enough to know just what each of his men could endure, and for how long they could stand up under it.

"Life is of little use to the vanquished!" Dick shouted on. "Go in to win—kill yourselves!"

At an earlier point on the course it would have been fearfully bad leadership. It would have resulted in disaster had any of Dick & Co. had any form of serious physical weakness.

But Dick Prescott knew his boys!

"Kill yourselves!" he shouted out again, as he saw the two canoes running neck and neck. "For the honor of Gridley High School!"

Right noble was the response, though flesh and blood could not stand this new and savage grilling for long.

"Wake up, Trentville!" shouted Ted Pascal, when he saw the "Scalp-hunter" gaining. "Wake up! Let out all of your steam! Push!"

Dick Prescott said no more. His straining gaze was now fixed on the finish line. Not one of his chums even glanced at the imaginary line. All their thoughts, like all their glances, were on their paddles.

"A final dash, now!" called Dick. "Slam up the pace for Gridley!"

But Trentville was showing its boasted reserve steam.

Close as they now were to the finish, Pascal had no thought of permitting defeat to come to his crew.

No dinning of whistles was there now. Every spectator waited breathlessly for the outcome that would be reached in the next few seconds.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

Then the end came.

Pascal sank back on his seat with a groan when he had put in the last dip of his paddle that could do any good.

Frantic indeed was the cheering, and now once more came the deafening screech of whistles.

From the judges' launch, as soon as the din had died down a bit, came the announcement through a megaphone:

"Gridley High School wins by three quarters of a length."

Dick heard the news, then ordered quietly:

"Paddle—easily."

A turn of his own blade swung the prow around so that the "Scalp-hunter" glided in toward the hotel landing float.

To-day he had no jubilant mob of Gridleyites to fear in the excess of their joy. Only some very gentle friends of their own town came hurrying forward to congratulate them.

But Dr. Bentley gripped Dick's arm as soon as that young man stepped from the canoe.

"Bring your crew along and follow me, Prescott," whispered the physician. "You are a limp-looking lot. That was a wild, splendid finish, but I fear you may have put it too hard to your crew. I want to examine you all, to make sure that not too much harm has been done by your desperate 'kill yourself' order."

Dr. Bentley led the way to the boathouse, while a hotel employ took charge of the "Scalp-hunter."

He listened briefly at each boy's heart, then made them all sit still for ten minutes. At the end of that time he examined them again as to heart beat. Half an hour later he made a third examination.

"I don't believe anyone of you has sustained any lasting injury," said Dr. Bentley at last. "But, Prescott, don't you ever dare give a 'kill yourself' order again. That is my order, and an emphatic one. You may recall that I happen to be medical director of the Gridley High School Athletic Association. If you youngsters ever try a pace like that again, then undoubtedly you will all be disqualified from future athletic events. Don't forget."

After that lecture Dick & Co. were allowed to sponge with hot water, rub down and put on ordinary clothing. Then they went forth to meet their friends.

Ted Pascal, however, was the first to rush forward. He had been waiting for their appearance.

"Prescott, you're a great fellow as a crew captain!" the big chief of the Trentvilles declared. "I was sure we had you beaten, and even now I can't imagine how you left us to the rear. But it was a great race, and I congratulate you!"

"And we all thank you for your good will," Dick answered promptly. "Truth to tell, Pascal, I thought, too, that you almost had us beaten."

"Almost?" echoed Ted. "Why not wholly?"

"Because Gridley is never quite beaten. It's our way, you know—one that was adopted by a past generation of Gridley boys and has been lived up to ever since."

"I've heard a lot about that 'Gridley way,'" laughed Ted Pascal, "but to-day was the first time that I've ever had it played on me."

"Do you play football?" asked Dick.

"No."

"Baseball?"

"I tried, but couldn't make the nine," Pascal confessed.

"Then I don't know that you're likely to have the 'Gridley' way played upon you again not unless you meet some of our girls in a tennis game."

The two crews mingled, passing some ten minutes in talk and in good-humored chaff. But at last Dick broke away and drew out from the canoe talk as he saw Laura, Belle, Susie and the other girls awaiting them at a point farther up in the hotel grounds.

"I know the girls have been waiting to speak to us," Dick told his chums, "and they've been mighty kind to us. Come along."

"We thought you would never get around to talking with poor mortals like us," Laura admitted, as the boys joined the high school girls.

"It was mainly your father's fault," Dick laughingly, protested.

"How was that?"

"You'll have to ask him. Perhaps we're not at liberty to reveal what the Athletic Association's medical director had to say to us."

"Especially when it's in the nature of a 'roast,'" added Danny Grin.

"If my father was severe with any of you I am certain that he had good reason," replied Laura gravely, though her eyes twinkled. "But what a splendid race you made against Trentville and at one time we felt sure that you were beaten."

"We all felt the same way at one time," Tom Reade interjected.

"All except Dick," added Darry. "Why, if anyone were to kill Dick Prescott, Dick would insist on the fellow coming around the next day and proving his death."

"It was a splendid race, anyway," Belle glowed. "Do you notice anything, boys?"

"Where?" asked Tom, looking blankly around.

"Anything about us?" Susie put in.

"Nothing," drawled Tom, "except that you're the finest, daintiest and sweetest-looking lot of girls we know. But that's true every other day in the week."

"We didn't ask you anything like that," Susie pouted, "though doubtless it's all true enough. But don't you notice what we're all wearing?"

"I think I see what you mean," Greg suggested hopefully. "Each one of you is wearing the Gridley High School pin."

"Correct!" assented Susie warmly. "But can't you guess why we're wearing the pins? It's because when Gridley boys can win such a race as you won to-day it's a real honor to wear the pin."

"And a bigger honor to have it worn on our account," Dick laughed.

"I was waiting to see who would be the first boy to say something really nice!" cried Clara Marshall.

"Have you heard of any more canoe clubs coming this way—high school clubs with which you could arrange races?" asked Laura.

"No," said Dick, with a shake of his head. "Even if there were a dozen coming here I'm afraid we'd have to lose the chance."

"Why?" asked Belle quickly.

"Because we can remain here only two or three days longer."

"Oh, that's a shame," broke in Susie. "Do you really have to go back to Gridley?"

"Yes," said Dick solemnly.

"Is the reason one that you may properly tell us?" Laura inquired.

"It's one that we're not ashamed of, because we can't help it," Prescott rejoined. "Our vacation up here is nearly at an end just because our funds are in the same plight—nearly at an end, you see."

"Oh, what a shame!" cried Clara sympathetically.

"To be short of money is more than a shame," blurted Tom Reade. "It is a crime, or ought to be. No one has any right to be poor—but what can we do?"

"Oh, well, there are plenty of pleasant times to be had in good old Gridley in the summer time," Dick declared stoutly. "And we shall have our canoe there."

While chatting the young people had been walking up through the hotel grounds until now they stood just behind the stone wall that separated the ground from the road.

"Why—look what's coming!" urged Dave Darrin, in a voice expressive of mock interest.

All looked, of course.

Fred Ripley, his hat drawn down over his eyes, came trudging along.

In one hand he carried a dress suit case, and from the way his shoulder sagged on that side, the ease appeared to be heavy.

On young Ripley's face was a deep scowl.

"Judging from his appearance," suggested Tom Reade, "Rip is walking all the way to the Land of Sweet Tempers. Probably he's doing it on a wager, and is just beginning to realize what a long road lies ahead of him. I wonder if he'll, arrive at his destination during his lifetime?"

Fred's shoes, usually so highly polished, were already thick with dust. His collar, ordinarily stiff and immaculate, was sadly wilted and wrinkled. His whole air was one of mingled dejection and rage.

"I wonder what can have happened to him?" asked Susie curiously.

"I think his conscience may be chasing him," smiled Dick.

What really had happened was that Squire Ripley had been present when his son had made a very disrespectful answer to a white-haired man, one of the guests at the Lakeview House where the Ripleys were stopping.

In a great rage the lawyer had decided to send his son home for that act of gross disrespect to the aged.

To make the punishment more complete, Mr. Ripley had ordered his son to make the long journey on foot over the hills to the railway station. Only enough money had been handed the young man to buy his railway ticket home. The dress suit case had been added in order to make his progress more difficult.

"A young man who cannot treat the aged with proper respect must be dealt with severely," said Lawyer Ripley to his son. "You will reach home fagged out from your long tramp. For your fare, until your mother and I return, you will have to depend on such food as the servants at home can spare you from their larder. Don't you dare order anything from the stores to be charged against me. Now, go home, drowse out your summer in the hot town and reflect on what a mean cad you have shown yourself to be to-day."

While Fred was thinking this all over he glanced up suddenly, to see fourteen pairs of Gridley eyes fixed upon him. The young people, as soon as they found themselves observed, immediately turned their glances away from the sullen looking young pedestrian from their school.

"I wonder what has happened to Fred Ripley?" Susie repeated, when the object of their remark was some distance away. "Something has gone very wrong with him. A blind man could see that much."

During this time Fred was thinking to himself:

"If the guv'nor subjects me to this degradation just for one sharp answer to an old man, what would that same guv'nor do to me if he knew all the things that I've been engaged in up here at the lake? What if he knew that I hired that farmer's son to swim under the float and attach that drag to the canoe? What would the guv'nor do if he knew that I tried to wreck Prescott's outfit?"

Fred shivered at the mental prospect of his father's stern, grim wrath.

But young Ripley, as sometimes happens, wasn't caught just then. He would go on for the present planning mean tricks against those whom he had no just reason to dislike. Yet his time was sure to come.

Soon after Dick & Co. were compelled to bid adieu to Lake Pleasant. They had had a splendid time, and had acquitted themselves with great credit in this entry into high school athletics. They had had pleasure enough to last them all the rest of the summer in memory.

The cost of transporting their canoe, on the homeward trip, was borne out of the funds of the Gridley High School Athletic Council.

Dick & Co. entered three more canoe races against high school teams that summer. All these were run off on the home river, and Dick & Co. had the great glory of winning them all "the Gridley way."

After the summer, came the opening of the school year again. Our readers may learn what happened to Dick & Co. in their sophomore year in the second volume of the "High School Boys Series," which is published under the title, "The High School Pitcher; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond."

As to what befell our young friends in the summer vacation which followed their sophomore year, all that is told in the second volume of the "High School Boys Vacation Series." That interesting volume is published under the title, "The High School Boys' Summer Camp; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven." It will be found to be a splendid story of real American boys who know how to get the most out of both work and play, and to make each year of life a preparation for a better year to come. In this volume the friends of Dick & Co. will find these six sturdy boys leading a life full of healthy excitement and adventure in the woods.

THE END

THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP

or

The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven

CONTENTS

I. The Man in the Four-Quart-Hat

II. Dick and Some High Finance

III. The Human Mystery of the Woods

IV. Dave Darrin is Angry

V. Dick Grapples in the Dark

VI. Danger Comes on the Hoof

VII. Fighting the Mad Stampede

VIII. Visitors for the Feast

IX. Dick's Woodland Discovery

X. Setting a New Trap

XI. A Hard Prowler to Catch

XII. "Tag" is the Game—Tag Mosher!

XIII. In a Fix!

XIV. Thrashing an Ambulance Case!

XV. The Interruption of a Training Bout

XVI. Ten Minutes of Real Daring

XVII. During the Big Storm

XVIII. Mr. Page's Kind of Father

XIX. Seen in a New, Worse Light

XX. Some Imitation Villainy

XXI. The Medical Examiner Talks Training

XXII. Plating Ragtime on Mr. Bull

XXIII. What Tag "Borrowed" from the Doctor

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE MAN IN THE FOUR-QUART HAT

"You'll find your man in the lobby of the Eagle Hotel or in the neighborhood of the hotel on Main Street," said Dick Prescott. "You can hardly miss him."

"But how will I know Mr. Hibbert, when I see him?" pursued the stranger.

"I don't know that his name is Hibbert," Dick answered. "However, he is the only young man who has just reached town fresh from Europe. His trunks are pasted all over with labels."

"You'll know the young man, sir," Tom Reade broke in, with a quiet smile. "He always wears a spite-fence collar. You could bill a minstrel show on that collar."

"A collar is but a slight means of identification, in a city full of people," remarked the stranger good-humoredly.

"Well, then, sir, your man also wears a four-quart silk hat, and a long black coat that makes you think of a neat umbrella covering," Tom went on.

"And lavender trousers," supplemented Greg Holmes.

"Always wears these things, you say?" questioned the stranger.

"He has, so far," Dick nodded. "Mr. Hibbert has been in town only since late yesterday afternoon, and it's only four in the afternoon to-day."

"I shall be able to find my man all right," smiled the stranger. "You've informed me that he is stopping at the Eagle Hotel. Until now, I knew only that Mr. Hibbert was in Gridley. Thank you, young gentlemen."

"Now, I wonder how he knew that," murmured Tom reflectively.

"Knew what?" demanded Dave Darrin.

"That we're gentlemen," Tom responded.

"Oh, he guessed that," suggested Harry Hazelton.

"He's a good guesser, then," remarked Tom. "I always like to see a man so discerning. I'm ashamed to confess it, but Dick is the only fellow in our crowd who looks at all like a gentleman. He is dressed in his Sunday best. Look at us!"

The other five certainly looked neat enough, even though they did not wear their "Sunday best."

"Now, fellows, what's the lowest I'm to take for the canoe?" Dick inquired, after a glance at his watch. "The train is due in two minutes."

Instantly his five chums looked thoughtful.

"You'll get the most that you can, of course," Greg insisted.

"I shall try to get a good price," Dick nodded, "but I may find myself up against close bargainers. So hurry up and vote as to the lowest price that I'm to accept under any circumstances."

"What do you say?" asked Tom Reade, looking at Dave.

"We ought to get sixty dollars for it, at the very lowest," Darrin replied, slowly. "I'd like to pull in seventy-five dollars, for we need every penny of the latter amount."

"We might get along with seventy," hinted Harry Hazelton. "Suppose we say seventy dollars as the lowest possible price that we can consider."

"Sixty-five dollars, anyway," urged Dan Dalzell, otherwise known as "Danny Grin."

"What's your own idea, Dick?" asked Tom Reade, as the distant whistle sounded.

"If you fellows are going to be content with a sixty or seventy-dollar bottom price," suggested Prescott, "I wish you'd elect someone else to go in my place."

"Do you think we'll have to take fifty?" asked Tom Reade looking aghast.

"If you send me, and leave the trade in my hands," retorted young Prescott, "then you'll have to accept ninety dollars as the very bottom price, or there won't be any sale."

"Hurrah!" chuckled Danny Grin. "That's the talk! Ninety—or nothing!"

"Do you think you can get that much?" asked Dave doubtingly.

"I'll have to, or I won't make any trade," Dick smiled, though there was a glint of firmness in his eyes.

"Let it be ninety dollars or nothing, then," agreed Tom Reade, adding, under his breath, "With the accept on the 'nothing.'"

As Dick glanced about him at the faces of his chums they all nodded their approval.

"I have my final instructions, then," Dick announced, as the east-bound train rolled in at the Gridley station. It had been from the westbound train, a few minutes before, that the stranger seeking Mr. Hibbert had alighted.

"Wish you luck, old chap!" cheered Dave, as Dick ascended the carsteps.

"I wish us all luck," Dick called back from the car platform, "and I'll try to bring it back to you."

The train was moving as Dick entered one of the day coaches. Silently his chums wished that they might all have gone with Dick, instead of turning away from the station, as they were now doing. Funds were low with Dick & Co., however, and all hands had contributed to buy young Prescott's round-trip ticket to Porthampton, more than an hour's ride away.

"Do you believe Dick can get ninety dollars for the canoe?" asked Dave at last, when the high school boys were half way to Main Street.

"Why not? It's a six-paddle war canoe, a genuine one, and in good condition for the water," Tom Reade replied.

"But it's only a second-hand canoe," Darrin argued. "It was second-hand when we bought it at the Wild West auction a year ago."

"That canoe is in just as good order as it ever was," Greg maintained. "It's a shame for us to sell it at all. We could have had a lot of fun with it this summer."

"Yes," sighed Danny Grin, "if only Harry and I hadn't been forbidden by our parents to have anything more to do with the canoe."

"One thing is certain," spoke up Tom promptly. "With two of our fellows barred from entering the canoe we couldn't have any fun. Dick & Co. have always pulled together, you know. There are six of us, but we don't break up into smaller parties, and we don't recruit our ranks with newcomers."

"I don't see why my father had to kick so about the canoe," sighed Harry Hazelton. "We enjoyed the good old canoe all last summer, and not one of us got hurt in it, or from it."

"I understand why your father objects, Harry," broke in Darrin. "With five drowning accidents from canoes hereabouts, already this summer, and two of those accidents on our own river, your father has some right to be nervous about the canoe."

"I can swim," argued Harry.

"So could both of the fellows who were drowned right here in the river," rejoined Reade. "Harry, I don't blame either your father or Dan's mother for objecting. Anyway, think of the fun we're going to have, this summer, of a different kind."

"If we sell the canoe," Darrin laughed. "But we haven't sold it yet."

"Oh, Dick can get something for the canoe," insisted Reade.

"Yes; but 'something' won't fill the bill, now, for you all heard Dick say he wouldn't take less than ninety dollars for it. When Dick says a thing like that he means it. He will bring back ninety dollars, or——"

"Or nothing," finished Dave. "Somehow, I can't just figure out what any man would look like who'd give ninety dollars for an old second-hand war canoe, even if it is of Indian model."

"And made of genuine birch bark, which is so hard to get these days," added Reade. "Fellows, I can't believe that our old Dick will come back whipped. Defeat isn't a habit of his, you know."

So the "Co." of Dick & Co. wandered up on to Main Street, a prey to suspense. Some hours must pass ere they could hope to know the result of their young leader's mission at Porthampton.

All the member of Dick & Co. are assuredly familiar enough our readers. These six young Americans, Gridleyites, amateur athletes and high school boys, were first introduced to the reader during their eventful days of early chumship at the Central Grammar School. Their adventures have been related in detail in the "Grammar School Boys Series." How they made their start in athletics, as grammar school boys, and, more important still, how they made their beginnings in character forming, have all been related in that series. We next came upon Dick & Co. in the "High School Boys Series." All of our readers recall the rousing story of "The High School Freshmen." Young Prescott and his chums were bound to be "different," even as freshmen; so, without being in the least "fresh," they managed to make their influence felt in Gridley High School during their first year there. Though, as freshmen, they were not allowed to take part in athletics, they contrived to "boost up" Gridley High School athletics several notches, and aided in putting the Athletic Association on a firmer basis than it had ever known before. They did several other noteworthy things in their freshman year, all of which are now wholly familiar to our readers. Their doings in the second high school year are fully chronicled in "The High School Pitcher." In this second volume the formal and exciting entry of Dick & Co. into high school athletics is splendidly described, with a wealth of rousing adventure and humorous situations.

This present series, which is intended to describe the vacations of our Gridley High School boys in between their regular school years, opened with the preceding volume, "The High School Boys Canoe Club." Within the pages of that volume are set forth the manner in which Dick & Co. secured, at an auction sale of a Wild West show, a six-paddle Indian war canoe. All their problems in getting this canoe into serviceable condition made highly interesting reading. The host of adventures that surrounded their vacation at Lake Pleasant proved thrilling indeed to our readers. How they met and contested with the canoe clubs from other high schools was delightfully set forth. The efforts of Fred Ripley to spoil the fun of Dick & Co. during that vacation, formed another strong feature of the tale.

We now find our young high school friends, just after the Fourth of July, at a very exciting point in their careers. As has been intimated, Harry Hazelton's and Dan Dalzell's parents had grown nervous about the canoeing sport, and had urged their sons not to enter the craft again. As Dick & Co. had always been companions in all forms of sport, the other four chums had promptly decided to sell the canoe, if possible, and to devote the proceeds to going off in the "real woods" to camp.

And now a probable customer at Porthampton had been found, and Dick had departed by train to see whether the sale could be effected.

"I've twenty cents left. Is there money enough in the crowd to buy five ice creams?" asked Tom Reade, displaying two dimes.

"I've a whole half dollar, though you won't believe it until you see it," laughed Dave Darrin.

"Then there's enough for cream," decided Tom.

"I'll put in my half, if you fellows say so," Dave went on. "But we may soon be in need of quite a bit of money. Wouldn't it be better to hold on to our fruit of the mint?"

"When we sell the canoe we'll have plenty of money," suggested Danny Grin.

"Very true, old Smilax," nodded Dave. "But what if Dick doesn't sell it?"

"Then we won't have plenty of money," responded Greg promptly.

"If Dick doesn't make a sale to the parties he has gone to see," Dave went on argumentatively, "we may want money to buy him a ticket to some other town. It won't be wise to spend our little capital until we see some more money coming in."

"That sounds like common sense," agreed Reade, dropping his dimes back into his pocket. "Still, I'm sorry that we're not rich enough to finance the ice cream proposition and still have enough capital left."

"So am I sorry," sighed Danny Grin. "This waiting for Dick Prescott to get back with the news is a wearing proposition."

"Come down to my house," suggested Dave. "I've got that catalogue from the tent and camping goods house. Let's go and look over the catalogue, and try to decide just what we want to buy for our camp when Dick gets the money for the canoe."

"That would be bully fun, if we really knew that Dick had sold the canoe," smiled young Holmes wistfully. "However, until we do know, I suggest that we avoid all false hopes and keep away from all catalogues."

At this instant Tom nudged Dave. Two men were passing, and one of them was saying to the other:

"Yes; I sold the double house for eighty-two hundred dollars—a clear profit of twenty-two hundred. Then I put four thousand more with that money and bought the Miller place. Within a couple of years I'll get rid of the Miller place for at least sixteen thousand dollars. I've never known a time when real estate money came in as easily."

"Is he talking about real money?" grunted Darrin. "He can't be!"

"He is," Tom declared. "That's Buller, of Wrenville. He is a very successful man in real estate. Father knows him."

"Humph! Talking of thousands, when a few ten dollar bills would fix us for the summer," muttered Dave Darrin. "I wonder if men ever stop to think how it feels for a boy to go around broke."

"I spoke to my dad along those lines once," smiled Tom.

"What did he say?" asked Danny Grin.

"Oh, dad told me there was no objection whatever to my starting out and earning a lot of money. He explained that was how he had gotten his."

The other youngsters were smiling now, for, as was well known to them all, Mr. Reade wasn't credited with possessing a great deal of money.

"Well, are you fellows coming down to my place to look over the catalogue?" Dave proposed once more. "It'll help to kill time during our suspense."

Though they felt rather foolish about spending their dollars before they obtained them, the four high school boys turned to follow Darrin, when a voice behind them called:

"Oh, boys! Just a moment, please!"

"It's the man in the four-quart silk hat," Tom whispered, as the five chums baited and turned.

"Man?" echoed Darry, though also in a whisper. "Humph! Hibbert looks more like a boy who has run away from home with his father's wardrobe."

Certainly, as he hurried toward them, Mr. Hibbert did look youthful. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two—perhaps he was a year younger than that. He was not very tall, nor very stout. His round, rosy, cherubic, smoothly shaven face made him look almost girlish. He was faultlessly, expensively dressed, though on this hot July afternoon a black frock coat and high silk hat looked somewhat out of keeping with the day's weather report.

"I just wanted to ask you boys to do me something of a favor," Mr. Alonzo Hibbert went on.

"Name the favor, please," urged Tom with drawling gentleness.

"Can you tell me what shop that is over there?" inquired Mr. Hibbert, pointing, with a dapper cane, across the street.

"That is Anderson's Ice Cream Emporium," Tom answered gravely.

"Let's go over there," proposed Mr. Hibbert smiling, as he glanced from one face to another.

"That proposition was just before the house, and was voted down," Tom continued.

"What was the matter, boys?" demanded young Mr. Hibbert beamingly. "Didn't you have the price?"

"On the contrary, we had the price," Reade answered, as gravely as ever. "However, after discussion, we decided that we had other uses for our capital."

"But I haven't any other uses for my present capital," pursued Mr. Hibbert, as smiling as ever. "So come along, please."

Instead of jumping at the offer, Dick's partners regarded the man in the four-quart hat with some doubt. Often, when offered a courtesy from strangers that they would like to accept, these boys were likely to regard the offer with this same attitude of suspicion. It was not that Dick & Co. meant to be ungracious to strangers, but rather that their boyish experience with the world had taught them that such offers from strangers usually have strings attached to them.

"Don't you young men like ice cream?" asked Mr. Hibbert, looking fully as astonished as he felt.

"Certainly we do, Mr. Hibbert," Tom responded. "But what's the idea? What do you want us to do for you?"

"I ask you for the pleasure of your company," explained Mr. Hibbert. "I'm a stranger in this town, and I'd like a little company."

"And—afterwards?" pursued Reade.

"'Afterwards'?" repeated Alonzo Hibbert looking puzzled.

"What do you want us to do for you by and by?" Tom asked.

"Oh, I see," replied Hibbert, laughing with keen enjoyment. "You think my invitation a bait for services that I expect presently to demand. Nothing of the sort, I assure you. All I want is someone to talk to for the next half hour. Won't you oblige me?"

"Mr. Hibbert," broke in Dave suddenly, "I've just happened to remember that there is a man in town who wants to talk with you. We met him at the station, and he inquired where he could find you."

"I think I know whom you mean," admitted Hibbert.

"We told him you were stopping at the Eagle Hotel," Greg added.

"Then, if the man who is looking for me went to the Eagle Hotel, he has already learned that I am elsewhere. It's his business to find me, not mine to run about town seeking him. He can find me as well in the ice cream shop as in any other place. Will you young men oblige me with your company?"

At a nod from Darrin the others fell in line. Mr. Hibbert led the way across the street, entering the shop, which proved to be empty of other customers.

As the waitress approached the two tables to take the orders for ice cream the host of the occasion turned to his guests.

"Give the young woman your orders, gentlemen," said Alonzo Hibbert.

"Strawberry," said Tom.

"Vanilla," requested Dave.

"Oh, fudge!" interposed their host.

"We haven't any fudge ice cream, sir," remarked the waitress without smiling.

"I cried fudge on their orders," remarked Hibbert gayly. "They are too modest. Young woman, have you still some of those cantaloupes, which you cut open and fill with different flavors of cream and water ice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, young gentlemen, permit me to change the order to one of those cantaloupes for each of you."

The waitress departed on her errand, while Reade and Darrin glanced at each other, somewhat aghast. The delicacy ordered by Mr. Hibbert cost a quarter of a dollar a portion.

When the orders were brought and placed on the table, Alonzo Hibbert draw from his pocket a roll of bills, stripping off the outermost and handing it to the waitress. Yet their host gave no sign of attempting to make a vulgar display of his money. He seemed rather unconscious of the possession of it.

"Are these favorites of yours?" inquired Mr. Hibbert presently of Greg, indicating the multi-colored load of ices, each resting in a half of a cantaloupe.

"Not exactly favorites," Greg replied. "We don't often have the money to spend on such an expensive treat."

"Don't you?" inquired Hibbert in a tone of considerable surprise, as though wondering why everyone in the world wasn't as well supplied with money as he himself was.

Then, after a pause, their host asked of Greg:

"Would you like always to have plenty of money?"

"I suppose everyone would like that," murmured young Holmes.

"Shall I make a prediction?" inquired Hibbert.

"By all means, if it pleases you," Greg answered politely.

"Then, Greg Holmes, I venture to assert that you will very shortly find yourself a millionaire."

This was said with so much earnestness, and apparent sincerity, that all five of the chums now regarded their host intently.

"How soon is that going to happen?" Greg laughingly inquired.

"Within a week," Alonzo Hibbert replied as seriously as ever. He glanced at Greg with a look full of friendly interest.

Tom Reade snorted, almost audibly, then drew down the corners of his mouth to keep himself from laughing outright. Dave, too, took another swift look at their smiling young host.

"I wish you were a sure prophet," murmured Greg trying hard not to laugh.

"I am," declared Mr. Hibbert seriously. "Mind what I tell you, Greg Holmes, within a week you will know yourself to be a millionaire."

"Real money?" demanded Greg.

"Real money," nodded Hibbert positively. "Or else it will be in stocks, bonds or real estate that could be converted into real money."

By this time, Tom, Dave and the others, Greg included, had taken Alonzo Hibbert's measure or believed they had. Their host, then, was a lunatic. A harmless and very amiable lunatic, to be sure, yet none the less the victim of a deranged mind.

"Eaten up your creams?" asked Mr. Hibbert, glancing around. "Then we'll have another apiece."

He signaled the waitress, giving the order.

"Don't ask me—yet—how I know," continued their host, turning once more to Greg Holmes, "but you're going to find yourself a millionaire within a week. I know it. It's all in your ear."

As he spoke Hibbert gave Greg's right ear a playful tweak.

"All in Greg's ear?" muttered Tom Reade under his breath. "I knew that from the outset."

"All in your ear, Holmes!" Hibbert repeated. "Yet it will all be very real money. Oh, won't you be astonished!"

"I—I think I shall, when the wealth rains down upon me," murmured Greg, now afraid to raise his eyes to meet the mocking glance that Darry was sending toward him.

At this moment the stranger of the railway station entered the room, then came toward the table.

"Mr. Hibbert, here is the man who was inquiring for you at the station," Tom announced in a low voice.

Hibbert turned, glancing inquiringly at the stranger.

"Are you Mr. Hibbert?" asked the latter.

"Yes," nodded the man in the four-quart hat. "My name is Colquitt," explained the stranger. "I am from——"

"Er—yes, quite so," murmured Mr. Hibbert. "And here is the boy. He is named Greg Holmes. Do you observe his right ear?"

"I do," Colquitt assented, after a swift, keen glance.

"He is the boy," Hibbert repeated after a moment's hesitation.

"Where do you live, young man?" asked Colquitt.

Greg supplied the name of his street and the number.

"Name of your family physician?" went on the stranger.

"Dr. Bentley."

"Has he always been your family physician?"

"Ever since I can remember," Greg declared.

"Thank you," and Colquitt turned to leave.

"Won't you stay and have an ice with us?" urged Hibbert.

"Too much to do," replied Colquitt, shaking his head and walking out.

Now the high school boys found themselves doubly, trebly puzzled. If Mr. Hibbert were an amiable lunatic, what of Colquitt? Both had appeared to know something mysterious about young Holmes.

Tom Reade, also, was thinking deeply. Dave Darrin was frowning. Dan Dalzell was grinning slightly, while Hazelton was giving his whole attention to the second ice before him.

Hibbert, however, passed to other topics as lightly as though he had already forgotten all about fortunes and ears. The time passed pleasantly until all of the five chums felt that they could hold no more ices. Then Hibbert, having paid the bill, left the ice cream place with them.

Outside they encountered Mr. Colquitt once more.

"May I have a word aside with you, sir?" demanded Colquitt.

"A dozen," agreed Hibbert readily.

The two walked apart from the boys, going down the sidewalk together slowly. But the youngsters heard Hibbert say earnestly:

"I tell you, Colquitt, that is the boy. He has the ear and all. And he'll be in luck with the money he'll have!"

"And I tell you, Mr. Hibbert, that he isn't the boy at all," retorted Colquitt, with even greater positiveness.

More was said, but the two passed out of hearing.

"Greg," declared Tom Reade solemnly, "it appears that you're the million-dollar kid!"

"I know it," grinned young Holmes. "I am! Also it seems equally certain that I am not!"

"What do you make of the whole business, fellows?" Tom asked, turning to the other chums.

"I've my own idea," laughed Dave Darrin.

"Give it us, quickly!" begged Danny Grin.

"My idea," Dave declared, "is that Hibbert is a rather harmless lunatic, yet one who has to be watched a bit."

"Then what about Colquitt?" urged Hazelton.

"Colquitt," guessed Darry, "is Hibbert's keeper."

"The mild lunatic idea," Tom observed, "fits in well with a chap who, in this sweltering July weather, will insist on wearing a four-quart silk hat, a spite-fence collar and a long, black, double-breasted coat."

"There's only one part of the whole dream that I'd like to believe," sighed young Holmes. "I'd be quite willing to have it proved to me that I'm a young millionaire!"

"What would you do if you had the million—right in your hand?" quizzed Danny Grin.

"I'd transfer it to my pockets," Greg answered.

"What next?" pressed Dan.

"I'd hurry to the bank with the money."

"And—then?" Dan still insisted.

"Then," supplied practical Tom Reade, "he'd end our suspense by paying Dick ninety dollars for our war canoe!"

"I would," Greg agreed.

II. DICK AND SOME HIGH FINANCE

"I feel like a fellow without any manners," complained Dave Darrin.

"What have you done now?" asked Greg, coming out of his million-dollar trance.

"It's what I haven't done," Darry answered. "It's also what none of us have done. We haven't thanked our very pleasant, even if slightly erratic, host for his entertainment."

"We can't very well butt in," declared Reade, glancing down the street. "Hibbert and his kee—I mean, his friend—are still talking earnestly. I wonder if they lock poor Hibbert up part of the time?"

Colquitt and young Mr. Hibbert had now turned in at the Eagle Hotel. Dave glanced at his watch, remarking:

"Fellows, it's ten minutes after six. Those of you who want any supper will do well to hurry home."

"I'm certain that I can't eat a bit of supper," declared Hazelton, looking almost alarmed. "I've eaten so much of that cream and cantaloupe that I haven't a cubic inch of space left for anything else."

Nevertheless the high school boys parted, going their various directions, after having agreed to meet by seven o'clock. All wanted to be on hand when Prescott got back to town.

After supper Greg had not been out of the house five minutes when Mr. Hibbert appeared at the gate of the Holmes cottage, and passed inside. The caller inquired for Greg's father, met that gentleman, and the two remained in private conversation for some five minutes.

Ere the first minute was over, however, Greg's father might have been heard, from the sidewalk, laughing uproariously. Finally Mrs. Holmes was called into the conference. She came forth again, looking somewhat amused.

From that meeting Hibbert went back to Main Street, where he fell in with Tom Colquitt.

"Are you satisfied, now?" demanded the latter.

"I'm puzzled," replied Hibbert, with the air and tone of a man who hates to give up a delusion.

Colquitt and Hibbert had not gone a block and a half ere they encountered Dave, Tom and the others, only Dick being absent from the gathering of the chums. Curiously, too, the meeting took place before the same ice cream shop.

"Just in time to have some more cream, boys," suggested young Mr. Hibbert.

"And we'd enjoy it, too, thank you," responded Tom courteously, "but there is a point, sir, past which it would be imposition to go. So we are going to content ourselves with enjoying a very pleasant recollection of the good time we had with you this afternoon."

"Better come inside with us," urged Mr. Colquitt. "I notice a table, away over in the corner, where we can be by ourselves. You see, boys, after what Hibbert said to one of your number this afternoon, we feel that an explanation is due to you. We can explain inside much better than we could on a street corner."

That crowbar of curiosity wedged the boys away from their fear that they were accepting too much from strangers. So they followed their mysterious conductors inside. Young Mr. Hibbert ordered ices similar to those that had been enjoyed that afternoon. Then Mr. Colquitt, with a brisk air, began:

"Concerning that suspicion that young Holmes might be the missing heir to a large sum of money, I'll tell you how Mr. Hibbert got his idea."

Then, as though fearing that he had made too great a promise, Mr. Colquitt paused.

"It's this way," he went on, at last. "Many years ago there was a railway wreck in this part of the state. A good many passengers were killed. Among them was the wife of a wealthy man. The husband escaped with his life, but he was so badly hurt that, for a year or so, his mind suffered. He had to be taken abroad. There were a few babies among those killed in the wreck, and the infant son of the couple was supposed to be one of them. The father is now well and healthy, but a very lonely man. Within the last few weeks this father has had some reason to believe that his son didn't perish in the wreck, but that other people, believing both parents had been killed, took charge of the infant.

"That is all," continued Mr. Colquitt, "except that the missing infant had a small v-shaped nick on the outer edge of his right ear. Probably with the boy's growth, if he is still alive, the nick has become so small as to be barely noticeable, like the nick in Holmes' right ear. Mr. Hibbert came to Gridley only yesterday, and it happened that one of the first young men he saw, close to the hotel, was young Holmes. Rather by chance Hibbert saw that very small nick, that usually would escape notice. In great excitement Hibbert telegraphed the anxious father, and the father wired Blinders' detective agency, which sent me down to Gridley."

"It isn't possible that Greg can be the missing son," breathed Tom Reade incredulously.

"He isn't," declared Tom Colquitt promptly. "I made sure of that very soon after I reached town to-day. First of all, I found out the name of the family physician, Dr. Bentley. I saw that gentleman, and he assured me he knew that young Holmes was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, for Dr. Bentley told me that he signed young Greg's birth certificate. That was proof enough, but I also saw Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, a few minutes ago. The missing son of the wealthy man in question had two other marks on his body that would identify him."

"What are those marks?" asked Dave Darrin deeply interested.

Tom Colquitt hesitated, glancing at young Mr. Hibbert.

"Tell 'em," nodded the young man of the four-quart hat.

"The young man we are seeking," replied the detective, "will have a brownish mole over his right shoulder blade and a reddish mark to the left of his breast bone. The boy was born with those marks. The nick in his ear resulted from an accident when the nurse was handling the child."

"We'll find the youngster for you," promised Danny Grin lightly.

"And is Mr. Hibbert a detective, too?" asked Tom Reade.

"No," replied Colquitt, with great promptness, while Mr. Hibbert, grinning sheepishly, added:

"I haven't brains enough for that, I guess. But, Master Holmes, please tell me, to satisfy my last doubt. Have you any such marks as Mr. Colquitt has described?"

"I never noticed such marks on myself," Greg replied.

"He hasn't them," Dave interjected, "or the rest of us would have noticed the marks when we've been in swimming."

"Then your last idea that Gregory Holmes is the missing young man must vanish now, my dear Mr. Hibbert," smiled Mr. Colquitt.

"I'm vanquished," confessed Alonzo Hibbert, with a sigh. "I'm no good at anything. I wouldn't even make a detective."

"I must leave you now," suggested Mr. Colquitt, rising. "I must wire to—er—to my client. Poor man, he will be greatly disappointed."

As the detective rose and passed outside Hazelton leaned over to murmur to young Holmes:

"Don't you wish it had turned out that you were the million-dollar kid?"

"Not if I had to give up my father and mother," Greg replied, with great promptness.

"I seem to be a fool at everything," sighed Alonzo Hibbert in disgust.

"No; I would say, sir," suggested Tom Reade, "that you made the mistake of proceeding on one sign, instead of looking for all three."

"Have another ice!" urged Mr. Hibbert, brightening at once. "You have set me straight. I wasn't a fool, after all—merely too swift"

But the boys shook their heads as they murmured their thanks.

So they were about to rise when a voice called cheerily behind them:

"Stay where you are, fellows. We'll have an ice cream all around."

"Dick!" cried five eager voices at once, as Prescott came smilingly to join them. Then their eyes all framed the same question, which their lips refused to utter.

"Did you sell the canoe?"

As Dick glanced inquiringly at young Mr. Hibbert, Dave Darrin presented him. Dick also learned that Hibbert had been a willing host to five of the chums.

"Now, you'll turn about and eat an ice cream with us, won't you, Mr. Hibbert?" urged young Prescott.

This the young man consented to do, though, as soon as the dainty had been disposed of, he begged to be excused that he might go and have further talk with Tom Colquitt.

"You sold the canoe, I think, Dick?" said Tom, as soon as their late host had left them.

"Yes," beamed their leader.

"You might tell us what you got for it," urged Danny Grin.

"Guess," hinted Dick.

"Fifty," said Dave promptly.

"He said he wouldn't take less than ninety," retorted Hazelton.

"Ninety dollars," guessed Tom.

"Fellows," laughed Dick, "at one time on the train I was so downhearted and glum over the chances of a trade that I believe I would have jumped at fifty dollars. Then I remembered my promise not to take less than ninety dollars. With that I soared to a hundred dollars, then down, by degrees, to seventy. But my promise pulled me back to ninety."

"It wasn't exactly a promise," Dave broke in. "Anyway, Dick, it wasn't the kind of promise that had to be kept."

"Half the time I felt that the promise had to be kept, and the other half of the time I felt that it might better be broken," Prescott went on, laughingly. "Just as I reached Porthampton, however, and saw all the fine summer homes there, my figures began to rise. I realized, of course, that a birch bark canoe is a good deal of a rarity in these days; that such a boat hasn't anything like a hard-and-fast, staple value. A birch bark canoe, in other words, is worth what it will bring."

"And no more," nodded Dave Darrin. "So you were wise to take the fifty dollars."

"Who said that I took fifty dollars for the canoe?" Dick smiled back.

"What did you get?" insisted Harry Hazelton, his impatience increasing with every minute.

"Do you really want to know what I got?" teased Dick.

"Of course I do," snorted Harry. "We all do!"

"Then I'll tell you," nodded Dick. Instead, however, he began feeling in his pockets.

"Tell us, then!" ordered Hazelton gruffly.

"I got a check," smiled Dick.

"For how much?" pressed Hazelton.

"Well, let me explain," said Dick, still laughing. "You see, I didn't have to do any describing or praising of the canoe, for Mr. Eades, who bought the canoe for his crowd, was here three days ago, as you know, and looked the canoe over, in water and out. It was just a question of settling the price of the canoe. So, when I reached Mr. Eades, we started in to bargain. He asked me how much I wanted for the canoe. I guess, fellows, my nerve must have gone to my head, for I told him two hundred dollars."

"You didn't get it?" gasped Hazelton.

"I didn't," Dick answered soberly.

"How much——"

"Mr. Eades told me he represented himself and associates, who wanted the canoe to put on the little lake down at their country club. I told him it seemed to me that a canoe like ours was an expensive sort of thing to put in a pond. Then he offered me seventy-five dollars."

"That's a good, round sum, and will help us out a lot this summer," nodded Dave Darrin. "I'm glad you accepted it."

"I didn't," smiled Dick. "Mr. Eades finally offered eighty, and I told him I regretted that we hadn't done the trading at the time that he came over to Gridley to see the canoe. Mr. Eades replied that at the time he came here he wasn't authorized to speak for his friends, but merely to look at the canoe and report. After that he made one or two more small increases in his price, but I seemed to have lost interest in the subject of a trade and looked at my time table to see when the next train left for Gridley. Then we talked about other matters, and, fellows, I was pretty glum, though I didn't allow the fact to show. Finally, he offered me more money, and then a little more. At last I came down on my price, and made him my final offer. Mr. Eades didn't seem to like it, and then, all of a sudden, he took out his check book and wrote a check for me."

"Close to a hundred dollars?" asked Dave, with deep interest.

For answer Dick threw the check on the table. There was a wild scramble for it.

"A hundred and fifty dollars!" gasped Tom Reade.

"Let me see that check!" demanded Greg Holmes unbelievingly.

The check went from hand to hand, each of the fellows looking at it half bewildered. Yet certainly the check said one hundred and fifty dollars.

"See here, Dick," asked Tom anxiously, "are you sure—positive, that is—that it was honest to charge a hundred and fifty for that canoe of ours?"

"You may be sure that I thought of that," Prescott answered. "I don't want to defraud any man. But birch bark suitable for canoes is getting to be a thing of the past in this country. Our friend, Hiram Driggs, the boat builder, told me that a birch bark canoe, nowadays, is simply worth all one can get for it. But, after Mr. Eades had written the check and handed it to me, he said: 'Now, the trade is made and closed, Prescott, what do you really consider the canoe worth?' I answered him a good deal as I've answered you, and offered to return the check if Mr. Eades wasn't satisfied. Fellows, for just a moment or two my heart was in my mouth for fear he'd take me up and ask for the return of his check. But Mr. Eades merely smiled, and said he was satisfied if I was."

"I'll bet he'd have gone to a two hundred dollar price," declared Hazelton. "Dick, weren't you sorry, afterwards, that you didn't hold out flat for two hundred dollars?"

"Not I," young Prescott answered promptly. "If I had been too greedy I'd have deserved to lose altogether, and very likely I would have lost. Fellows, I think we can be well satisfied with the price we've obtained."

"I am!" declared Dave Darrin promptly. "We've realized a hundred dollars above my wildest dream."

Incidentally it may be mentioned that Mr. Eades found, from his friends, that he had a prize, indeed, in the fine old war canoe. The grounds committee of another country club offered two hundred and fifty for that same canoe a month later.

"Now, fellows," Dick went on, "suppose we leave here and decide how we're to lay out this money for our summer camp?"

The vote was carried instantly. With a whoop of glee the chums started for Dave's house.

III. THE HUMAN MYSTERY OF THE WOODS

"Now, get to work!" shouted Dick Prescott. "Destruction to all shirkers!"

"Please may I beg off for five minutes?" begged Danny Grin, raising one hand.

"Why?" queried Prescott sharply.

"I want to take that much time to convince myself that it's all true," replied Danny.

"You'll know that it's all true when you wake up to-morrow morning," laughed Dick. "But it won't look half as real if any fellow shirks any part of his work now. All ready, fellows?"

"Ready!" came the chorus.

"Tom Reade will make the best foreman, won't he?" appealed Prescott. "Tom has a knack for just such jobs as this, and it's going to be a tough one."

The boys stood in the middle of a half acre clearing in the deep woods, five miles past the town of Porter. Here the woods extended for miles in every direction. As these young campers glanced about them it seemed as though they possessed a wealth of camping material—far more than they had ever dreamed of owning.

The tent, twelve feet by twenty, and eleven feet high at the ridgepole, with six-foot walls, was their greatest single treasure. It had cost thirty-five dollars, and had been bought from the nearest large city.

"We'll get the tent up first," called Reade.

"Of course," smiled Dave. "That's all you're boss of anyway, Tom."

"Come on, then, and spread the canvas out," Tom ordered. "Bring it over this way. We want it under the trees at the edge of the clearing. Dan, you bring the longest poles."

Under Tom's further direction the canvas was spread just where he wanted it. Then the ridge-pole was secured in place across the tops of the highest two standing poles.

"Run it in under the canvas," Tom directed. "We'll get the metal tips of the poles through the proper roof holes in the canvas. There, that's right. Dick, you and Greg stand by that long pole; Dave, you and Dan by the other. Now, then—raise her!"

Up off the ground went the two uprights and the ridge-pole, the canvas hanging shapelessly from the ridge-pole.

"Bring that wooden sledge over here, Harry," was Foreman Reade's next order. "Now, drive in this stake while I hold it. Remember to hit the stake, not my hands."

The stake being soon driven into place Reade slipped the loop of a guy-rope around it, partly tightening the rope. Then he slipped to the next corner, where the process was repeated.

"Hurrah!" burst from Danny Grin, as the fourth corner stake was driven, and now the tent began to take shape.

"You fellows holding the poles may let go of them now," called Tom. "Come and help with the other stakes and guy-ropes."

As soon as the ropes along a given side of the tent had been made fast the side wall poles were stepped into place. At last the task of tent-raising was completed, save for the final tightening of all the ropes. Now Dick and Dave, under their foreman's orders, began to drive the shorter stakes that held the bottoms of the tent walls in place.

"Hurrah!" went up from several throats, as the boys stood back to take in the full dimensions of their big, new tent.

"My but she's a whopper!" exclaimed Danny Grin, pushing back the door flaps and peering inside.

"We won't find the tent any too large for a crowd of our size," Dick declared. "You all remember how crowded we were in the tent that we used last summer. You'll find we can fill this tent up when we get it furnished."

"Dick," called Tom, "take all of my gang except Harry. He and I will lay the floor."

Reade and Hazelton thereupon began to carry in two-by-four timbers and lay them where they wanted them on the ground inside the tent. Next they nailed boards across. They had bought all of this timber in Gridley secondhand at a bargain.

"Dave, you and Dan can start the furnace, while Greg and I unpack supplies," suggested Prescott.

Thereupon Darrin and Danny Grin started in to move a small pile of bricks. Next a tub of mixed mortar was carried to the level spot decided upon as the place whereon to erect the "furnace."

It was not much of a stove that Dave and Dan built, yet it was fitted and destined for the preparing of many a meal in record time. First of all, Dave marked off the space to be used. Four parallel lines of bricks, each line five bricks long, were laid on the ground. Dave, with a two-foot rule, measured a distance of sixteen inches between each row. Then began some amateur brick-laying. It was not perfectly done, by any means, yet these four parallel walls of brick that were presently up afforded three "stoves" lying side by side. As soon as the mortar was reasonably dried—and fire would help—grates and pieces of sheet iron could be laid across the tops of the walls over the three fires. It was one of the simplest and most effective cooking devices that such a camp could have. There was even a gas-stove oven, an old one, furnished by Dick's mother.

"It makes me hungry to look at the stove," declared Danny Grin.

"It's four o'clock now, so you'll have two hours more to wait," smiled Dick, as he glanced at his watch.

Out of packing cases and some odds and ends of lumber Dick and Greg had constructed some very fair cupboards, with doors.

"Oh, if we only had ice for use in this hot weather!" sighed Greg.

"But we haven't," returned Dick, "so what's the use of thinking of it."

In the tent Tom and Harry were putting in some of the last taps of the hammer. They had made a very creditable job of the flooring. It was now five o'clock. Dick & Co. had worked so briskly that they were now somewhat tired.

It had been an exciting day. They had left Gridley in the forenoon, journeying for an hour and a half on the train. Arriving at Porter the boys had eaten luncheons brought along with them. Then they had hunted up a farmer, had bargained with him to haul their stuff and then had tramped out to their camping place.

But the camp looked as though bound to prove a success. It was their camp, anyway, and they were happy.

"I'm glad enough of one thing," murmured Dick as he rested, mopping his brow.

"I'm glad of several things I can think of," rejoined Darry.

"The thing I refer to," chuckled Prescott, "is Fred Ripley."

"It never occurred to me to feel glad about Ripley," muttered Tom dryly.

"I mean, I'm glad that he has gone to Canada with his father this summer," Dick continued. "We shan't have a lot of things happening all the time, as we did last summer. Rip was a hoodoo to us last summer. This year we know that he's too far away to be troublesome."

"It will seem a bit strange, at first," assented Reade, "to return to our camp and not discover that, while we were away, Rip had been along and slashed the tent to ribbons, or committed some other atrocious act."

"Let's not crow until we're out of the woods," suggested Darrin. "Rip might come back from Canada, you know."

"He's sure to, if the Canadians find out the kind of a chap that he is," Danny Grin declared solemnly.

"Come here, you fellows," summoned Dick, "and hold a council of war over the supplies, to decide what we'll have for supper."

"I thought the steak was to be the main item," Tom rejoined. "With no ice it won't keep until morning."

"What do you want to eat with the steak?" asked Dick briskly.

The council—of six—quickly decided on the items of the meal. Harry, catching up two buckets, started to the nearest spring for water. Dave, with the coffee-mill between his knees, started to grind. Dick, with an old knife, began to cut the steak up into suitably sized pieces. Greg started a fire in one of the stove spaces,

Dan bringing more firewood. A task was at hand for each of them.

When the first fire was ready an old grate was placed over it. On this the pieces of steak were arranged. Dave was boiling coffee on another grate over the second fire.

"Wood is mighty scarce around here," complained Harry.

Dick glanced about him. No one was immediately busy.

"All scatter!" called Prescott. "Go in different directions. Each fellow bring back an armful of dry wood. Hustle!"

Dick himself was the first to return, about three minutes later. He came in fast, for he expected that the steak would be ready to remove from the grate.

Long before he reached the stoves, however, Dick dropped his wood and his lower jaw simultaneously.

"Hurry up, fellows!" he called hoarsely. "Hurry and see what has happened!"

That note of real distress in his voice caused the others to come running.

"Well, if you haven't an appetite!" gasped Tom. "To go and eat all the steak yourself!"

"I didn't eat any of it," Dick retorted grimly. "From the looks of things none of the rest of us will eat any of it, either."

"A dog got it, or some wild animal!" guessed Greg.

"No one animal could carry off four pieces of steak in his mouth at a time," Prescott answered, thinking fast. "And the tin plate I left here has gone with the meat. Animals don't lug off tin plates."

"Dick and I will stay behind to watch and take account of stock," Tom called. "The rest of you scatter through the woods and try to come up with the thief. If any fellow comes upon him, give a whoop, and the rest of us will hurry along."

The four scouts went off on the run.

"Anything else missing?" asked Reade, as Dick looked among the supplies.

"Yes," Prescott raged; "one of the bottles of Worcestshire sauce and two of the tins of corn. Oh, it's a two-legged thief that has spoiled our supper!"

"Perhaps you were too sure about Rip being off in Canada," grinned Reade.

"Fred Ripley would hardly steal food," Prescott retorted. "Rip is seldom really hungry. Tom, I'd give a dollar to know just who was hanging around this camp."

"I'd give two dollars to know," snapped Reade, "but I'd take the money from the camp treasury."

"Queer that the fellow didn't take the potatoes, too," mused Dick, turning back to the stove.

"The potatoes weren't done," suggested Reade wisely, "and probably our visitor didn't think it wise to wait until they were. The hulled corn will serve his purpose very well, though."

"It was a mean trick to play on us," quivered Dick.

"Of course it was—unless the thief were really very hungry," answered Tom.

"In that case, I don't believe I'd blame the fellow so much," Dick admitted. "But now, what are we going to have for supper?"

"I've an inspiration," Tom declared, as he thrust a fork into some of the potatoes in the pot. "These potatoes will be done in two or three minutes more. Open three tins of the corned beef."

"Tinned corned beef isn't so much of an inspiration, as inspirations go," laughed Dick.

"Open the three tins," Tom insisted. "Here are the onions. I'll peel a few—and do the weeping for the whole camp."

Tom was busy at once. Dick, after watching his friend start, caught something of the spirit of quick work.

"Dump the meat into this chopping bowl," Tom continued, as he hastily dropped peeled onion after onion into the wooden bowl. "Now, get the potatoes off the fire, and we'll drain and peel 'em."

This work was quickly under way.

"Do you see what the poem is to be?" grinned Reade.

"Looks like corned beef hash," smiled Dick.

"It will taste like it, too," predicted Reade. "Come on, now!"

Potatoes were quickly made ready. Tom began to chop the mixture, while Prescott got out one of the frying pans.

"Get out the lard," urged Tom. "Let's have some of this stuff cooking by the time that the fellows come in. It will console them a bit."

"It begins to smell good," murmured Dick presently, as he stirred the cooking mixture.

Tom busied himself with setting the table.

"All ready, when the fellows come in," announced Dick, as he removed the coffee pot and began to cut bread. "Better call 'em."

Placing his hands over his mouth, megaphone shape, Tom sent several loud halloos echoing through the woods.

Dan was the first one in. Greg arrived next, Harry third.

"Where can Dave be?" asked Tom, after several more halloos.

"We'll go and find him, if he doesn't show up," suggested Harry. "But first of all, let's stow some of this supper inside of us."

"We'll wait for Dave before we eat," Dick retorted quickly.

"Hello, Dave, hello!" roared Reade and Prescott in concert "Supper is ready! Hurry up."

"Queer there's no answer," said Greg, after a minute's wait.

"Something must have happened to Dave," suggested Danny Grin anxiously.

"What could happen to him?" demanded Hazelton scornfully. "Darry can take care of himself. He'll be in presently."

"Let's call him again!" urged Dan.

They called in concert, their voices echoing through the woods.

"Did you hear that?" asked Dick eagerly, after a pause of listening. "There it goes again."

"It's Dave, answering us," Harry declared.

The hail sounded distant.

"Come on!" cried Dick, leaping forward. "That yell was one of trouble, or I'm a bad guesser. Dan, you and Hazelton stand by the camp. Tom and Greg come along. If Dave is in trouble he'll be sure to need some of us!"

IV. DAVE DARRIN IS ANGRY

"Keep on calling, Dave!" shouted Dick, as they ran toward the sound of the voice.

"This way!" answered Darry, his voice sounding louder as they neared him.

"What's up?" Tom asked as they ran.

Dave's voice sounded in wrathful explosion.

"Eh?" Tom pressed him.

"Wait until you get here, and you'll see," retorted Dave.

"You're not hurt?" Dick shouted.

"No; but my feelings are!" vented Darrin indignantly.

Another minute and the trio headed by Dick, reached the spot.

By this time darkness was coming on through the woods. Prescott, who was in the lead, at first received the impression that Dave was standing beside a tree. And so Dave was, though the reason for his standing there was yet to be explained.

A moment more and Tom and Dick had reached the spot where the wrathful Darrin was standing.

"Well, of all the——" began Tom wonderingly.

"Outrages!" finished Darry angrily.

Prescott laughed outright.

"I suppose I must be a comical-looking object," admitted Dave Darrin ruefully. "But just wait until I lay my hands on the rascal who played this trick on me! Oh, I'll make him ache for his smartness."

Though Darrin had an unusually quick temper, he generally had it under excellent control. Now, however, he was so indignant that he fairly sputtered, and the humorous side of the situation did not appeal to him.

What Dick saw was that Dave stood with his back to the trunk of the tree. Around Darry's neck a noose was fast. Back of the prisoner the rope had been wrapped once around the trunk of the tree. Next, several folds of rope had been passed both around Darrin and the tree trunk in such fashion that the boy's arms were pinioned fast to his sides. In addition, a single turn of rope had been taken around each arm. Finally, the rope had been knotted several times at the opposite side of the tree from that on which Darrin stood.

"You must have stood pretty patiently for anyone to be able to tie you up in that artistic fashion!" blurted Tom Reade.

"Patient? Patient nothing!" growled Darry between his teeth. "I was so angry all the time that I couldn't keep from sputtering, but that rascal had me fast, and kept making me more secure."

"How old a man was he?" asked Dick.

"I don't know whether he was a man or a boy."

"Is your eyesight failing, Dave?" asked Tom.

"I haven't eyes in the back of my head," snapped Darry. "Say, aren't you fellows going to hurry up and free me?"

"Can't you free yourself?" suggested Reade.

"If I could have done that I'd now be ranging these woods in search of the perpetrator of this outrage," Darry declared. "Hurry up and untie me!"

"We will, but please be patient for a moment or two longer," begged young Prescott. "This is such a cleverly artistic job that I want to study out just how it was done. How did the fellow attack you?"

"From behind," muttered Darry.

"But how?"

"Wait, and I'll tell you," Dave went on, forcing himself to talk a trifle more calmly. "When I'm free I'll show you the spot over there, in the thicket between the two clumps of bushes. Well, I had gotten this far when I saw the missing steaks. They rested on a tin pan on the ground in the thicket. It looked as though the thief of our supper had gone away to get water or something. I had just stepped, on tiptoe, of course, past this tree when I heard a soft step behind me. Before I could turn, the noose was dropped over my head, and then down on my neck. It was jerked tight, like a flash, and I was pulled against this tree. The fellow took some kind of hitch around the trunk of the tree to hold me——"

"Yes; I see the hitch," assented Dick. "It was well done."

"So well done that it held me, for a moment," Dave went on. "The noose choked me, for a brief space, so that I didn't have much presence of mind. Before I recovered myself, the fellow had passed the rope several times around my body and arms, and had taken the extra loops on my arms. By that time I was so helpless that I couldn't stir to free myself."

"And you didn't see the fellow?" asked Dick.

"Not a glimpse of him. He worked from behind, and did his trick like lightning."

"But there are no steaks, nor any plate, on the ground in the thicket now," Reade reported, after looking.

"No," Darry grunted. "The fellow who tried me up like this passed over my eyes a dirty cloth that perhaps he would call a handkerchief. Then I heard him over by the thicket. Next he was back here and had whisked that cloth away from my eyes. That was the last I heard of him."

"Why didn't you set up a roar as soon as he attacked you?" demanded Tom Reade.

"The noose bound my throat so tightly, I couldn't," Darry explained. "I was seeing stars, and I was dizzy. After he had taken a few hitches of the rope around me he eased up on the noose a bit."

"Did you 'holler' then?" questioned Dick.

"No," Dave Darrin admitted honestly. "I used up all my breath telling that unknown, unseen fellow just what I thought of him."

"If you want to know what I think of the fellow," uttered young Prescott, "it seems to me that the unknown chap is clever and bright enough to be capable of better things than stealing supper from other people. This tie-up is about the most ingenious thing I've seen in a long time."

"Maybe I'd appreciate it more," retorted Darry, "if I could see it as you do, on another fellow. Are you going to hurry up and cut away this rope?"

"Not if you are able to wait calmly while I untie it," Dick answered. "It's surely a good piece of rope. It will go part way toward paying for the steaks."

With that Prescott began to untie the knots. When his fingers ached from this from of exercise, Greg took his place. Meanwhile, Tom Reade explored the thicket where Dave had seen the plate of steaks. There was no sign of the food taken from the camp. This Tom made out by the aid of lighted matches, as the long shadows were now falling in the woods.

"I'm glad, now, that you didn't cut the rope," said Dave, as at last he stepped free. "We'll save his rope, for I hope to find that fellow again."

"What will you do to him if you catch him?" grinned Reade.

"Maybe I'll need the rope to lynch him with," uttered Darry grimly.

Tom threw back his head, laughing heartily.

"Our dear, savage, blood-thirsty old Darry!" Reade laughed. "You talk as vindictively as a pirate, but if you found your enemy hurt you'd drop everything else and nurse him back into condition. Darry, you know you would!"

"Let's get back to camp," urged Greg. "Supper is ready, but no one has had any yet. My stomach feels like an empty balloon."

"All right, then," agreed Darrin gruffly, "though I'd sooner catch that fellow than eat."

"That word, 'eat,' sounds like a poem!" sighed Greg, tightening his belt as the quartette turned campward.

"So you didn't get a single glimpse of your—your annoyer?" asked Prescott.

"Not what you could call a glimpse," Darrin responded. "Two or three times I caught sight of the fellow's shirt sleeves as he passed the rope around me. His shirt sleeves were of a light tan color, so I suppose that is the color of his entire shirt. That, however, is the sole clue I have to the scoundrel's description."

"I'd like to meet the fellow," mused Dick.

"Maybe you'll have that pleasure," hinted Darry with the nearest approach to a smile he had yet shown.

"You mean you'd like to see me tied up in the same fashion, and then discover whether I could keep my temper under such circumstances?" laughed young Prescott.

"Never mind what I mean," Dave retorted.

They were soon in camp, now, after calling to Dan and Harry two or three times in order to locate their way. At last, however, they came in sight of the glowing embers of fire and the rays of the two lanterns that Dan had lighted and hung up.

"I smell something that smells mighty good," sniffed Dave. "Did any of you fellows recover the steaks? Have you been keeping something back from me?"

"I don't believe you'll find the steaks in camp," Dick retorted, "but you'll find something that will taste fully as good."

With that the quartette charged into camp. Everything was ready for the table by the time each fellow had washed his hands and face in the one tin basin that served the camp.

"Put one of those lanterns on the table, Dan," called Dick, as he finished drying himself on a towel. "Another night, if we eat after dark, we'll try to have a campfire that'll light the place up like an electric light."

"Another night, unless some of our neighbors move," predicted Darry, "we won't have food enough left to make it worth while to try to have supper!"

The boys sat down in great good humor, even Dave softening when he saw the bountiful supper that had been prepared. Not one of them felt nervous about the possible nearness of the late prowler. The boys were six to one, whoever the prowler might be. Besides, this mysterious stranger seemed to prefer humor to violence.

Yet, all the time they were eating and chattering—and Dick did his full share of both that young man, Prescott, was also busily thinking up plans by means of which he hoped to be able to gain a closer view of the recent prowler.

Of these plans he said no word to his chums, for there was more than a chance that the human mystery of the woods was even then within earshot, off under the shadows among the trees.

V. DICK GRAPPLES IN THE DARK

At last the meal was finished, this time without the help of the prowler. Dave and Dan washed the dishes, while Tom and Harry carried water enough to fill the hogshead that had been brought along as part of their camp equipment.

At the same time, Dick and Greg unstrapped and set up the six light-weight folding canvas cots, standing them in a row in the tent. Next they arranged the bedding that had been loaned by mothers at home, and made up the six beds. Enough fuel to start a fire in the morning was also brought in.

"And now, what did we come out here in the woods for?" inquired Dick smilingly.

"To get our fill of sleep," yawned Tom.

"To eat," suggested Hazelton hopefully.

"To fish," added Dave Darrin promptly.

"Just to lie down and take things easy," declared Danny Grin.

"As for me," piped up Greg Holmes, "I'm not going to bother my head, to-night, as to why we came here. I'm going to get a ten hour nap, and in the morning I'll try to solve the riddle for you, Dick, of why we came here."

A tired lot of boys, not really ready, as yet, to admit that they were used up, lay down on their cots without undressing. They intended, later, to get into their pajamas.

A single lantern, its wick turned low, hung from one of the posts. Prescott did not trust himself to lie down, for his eyes, despite his efforts to keep awake, were heavy, and he did not want to sleep for some time yet.

Within ten minutes Darrin alone had his eyes open, and even he was making a valiant struggle against sleep. At last, however, he yielded, and soon settled into sound slumber.

"They're off in another world," smiled Dick, as he listened to the deep breathing of his chums; then he slipped away from his cot.

From under a box in one corner of the tent he took out a large cup of coffee that he had hidden some time earlier. It was still warm and he drank it with relish, though his main purpose in using the beverage was to make sure of keeping himself awake.

His next move was to extinguish the lantern. Now he made his way to the bucket of water and basin. Dashing the cold water into his face, and wetting his eyes well with it, Prescott took a few deep breaths. He now felt equal to keeping awake for some time.

Outside, by this time, all was darkness, save where a few embers of the recent camp fire glowed dully.

Dick threw himself down, resting his head on his elbows, in the doorway of the tent.

"Now, don't you dare go to sleep!" he ordered himself, repeating the command frequently as a means of aiding himself to keep his eyelids from closing.

"You keep awake!" he half snorted, as he felt drowsiness getting nearer. He pinched himself, inflicting more than a little pain.

At last, however, the young leader of Dick & Co. found that his drowsiness had passed for the time being, like the sentinel in war time.

"Now, I think I can keep awake until daylight, if I have to," muttered young Prescott to himself. "At daylight it won't be so very mean to wake one of the other fellows and let him take my place."

Yet, after an hour had passed, Dick was almost doomed to discover that nature had some rights and knew how to assert them.

His eyes had just closed when he awoke with a start.

Someone was treading lightly past the wall of the tent, coming toward the door. Dick had barely time to glide back behind the flap of the tent when the unknown someone stopped at the doorway.

It was too dark to make out anything distinctly under the canvas, but the stranger listened to the combined snorings of five of the six boys, then chuckled softly.

"Oh! Funny, is it, to think that we're all asleep, and that you may help yourself at will to the food that cost us so much money!" thought Dick wrathfully. The stranger hearing no sound from the apparently sleeping camp soon passed on in the direction of the fire.

Here much of the provisions had been stacked in the packing case cupboards, for the reason that to store food in the tent would seriously curtail the space that the boys wanted for comfort.

Out of the tent crept Dick, crouching. His heart was beating a trifle faster than usual, perhaps, for he saw at once that the prowler was larger than himself.

Before one of the box cupboards the prowler halted and rummaged inside with his hands.

"I guess this is where I need a light," mused the stranger, half aloud.

"Pardon me, but what do you want with a light?" inquired Prescott, at the same time pushing the stranger forward on his face. Dick now seated himself on the other's shoulders.

"Don't make a fuss," Prescott advised. "I like to think myself a gentleman, and I don't want to muss you up too much."

The stranger laughed. It was an easy, confident laugh that destroyed a bit of the Gridley boy's sense of mastery.

"What are you doing, up at this time of night?" asked the stranger.

"Minding my own business, in my own camp," Dick replied easily. "And what are you doing here? Whose business are you minding?"

"My own, too, I reckon," replied the prowler more gruffly.

"In other words, attending to your hunger?" pressed Prescott.

"I'm looking out that I don't have too much hunger to-morrow," came the now half sullen answer.

"Is this the way you usually get your food?" Dick demanded dryly.

"This is the way I get most of it," came the reply.

"Stealing it, eh?"

"Well, what of it?" came the sulky retort. "The world owes me a living."

"To be sure it does," Dick answered blithely. "The world owes every man a living. That's just why you don't need to steal. Just sail in and collect that living by means of hard work. Are you the chap who collected our steaks this evening?"

"None of your business. And, now, if you've given me as much chatter as you want, get off my shoulders!"

"I've a little more to say to you yet," Dick responded.

"Get off my shoulders!"

"I will—when I'm through with you," Dick agreed.

"You'll get off at once, or I'll roll you off!" came the now angry threat.

"Try it," Dick urged coolly.

Right then and there the stranger did try it. He "heaved," then attempted to roll and grapple with the young camper. He would have succeeded, too, had Prescott relied upon his strength alone. But Dick employed both hands in getting a neck-hold that hurt.

"Now, quit your fooling," Prescott advised, "or I'll let out a whoop that will bring five more fellows here. Do you know what they would do to you? They'd just about lynch you—schoolboy fashion. Do you know what a schoolboy lynching is?"

"No," sullenly answered the stranger, as he started to renew the struggle.

"You will know, soon, if you don't stop your stupid fooling," Dick told him.

"Hang you, kid. Get off of me, and keep your hands away, or I'll hurt you more than you were ever hurt in your life, and I'll get away with it, too, before your friends come!"

So lively did the struggle become that Dick was obliged to use his clenched fist against the side of the prowler's jaw. That quieted the stranger for an instant.

Leaping lightly from his troublesome captive, Dick snatched up a heavy club of firewood that lay nearby.

"That's right," Dick agreed, swinging the club, as the other rose to a sitting posture. "Sit up, but don't try to get up any farther unless you want to feel this stake, which is tougher than those other steaks!"

Prescott kept nimbly out of reach of the other's arms, though he took pains to keep himself where he could jump in with a handy blow at need.

"Now," remarked the high school boy, "you are getting an idea as to who's boss."

"Well, what do you want?" asked the other sullenly. He had already drawn down a tattered, battered old cap so that it screened his face.

"I want to get a better look at you," Prescott replied. "I want to be able to know you anywhere. Tan colored woollen shirt; brown corduroy trousers; low-cut black shoes; cap defies description. Now, let me see your face."

With that Dick bent quickly, picking up an oil-soaked bunch of faggots that he had prepared before the others had turned in for the night and dropped them upon the campfire.

Like a flash he was back, close to the stranger. "Don't you dare try to get up!" Dick threatened, swinging the club.

"Hit me, if you dare!" leered the other. "I'm going to get upright now!"

With that he made a lurching move forward. Prescott swung the club, though of course he did not intend to beat the stranger about the head.

His indecision left him off his guard. The stranger closed in on the club, wrenching it from Prescott's hand and tossing it far away. But Dick dropped, wrapping his arms about the other's legs and throwing him.

Just as the two went down in a crash the fire, which had been smoking, now blazed up.

"I'll show you!" roared the stranger, now thoroughly aroused, as he grappled with Prescott and the pair rolled in fierce embrace over the ground.

Dick was not afraid, but he didn't want this night hawk to get away, so he bellowed lustily:

"Fellows! Gridley! Gr-r-r-id-ley! Quick!"

"Stop that!" hissed the stranger, who was now easily uppermost, and holding Prescott with ease.

"Quick!" yelled Dick.

The stranger grasped the high school boy by the throat, then as swiftly changed his mind, for someone was stirring in the tent. Up leaped the prowler, yet, swift as he was, Dick was also on his feet.

"Keep back!" warned the prowler, as he turned to run.

"You're mine—all mine!" vaunted young Prescott, making a gallant leap at the unknown foe.

But that brag was uttered just a few seconds too soon.

VI. DANGER COMES ON THE HOOF

Smack!

Against Dick's face came the palm of the larger youth's right hand. It was the old, familiar trick of "pushing in his face." So quickly did that manoeuvre come that Dick, caught off his balance, was shoved backward until he tripped and fell.

Then the stranger vanished with the speed of one accustomed to flight through the woods.

His eyes full of sand from the fall, Dick struggled to his feet, rubbing his eyelids, just as Dave Darrin came running up.

"What was it?" demanded Dave.

"Come on! We ought to catch him yet!" cried young Prescott, turning and running into the woods. But Dick's eyes were not quite as keen as they had been, and Darry, once he had the general direction, outstripped his chum in the race.

Once away from the blazing fire of oil-soaked wood, however, the boys found themselves at a disadvantage in the woods. At last Darry stopped, listening. Then, hearing sounds, he wheeled, dashing at a figure.

"Get out with you, Darry!" laughed Prescott good-humoredly.

"I thought you were——"

"The other fellow! Yes; I know," laughed Dick.

"Where is he? Listen!"

But only the night sounds of the woods answered them.

"We'd better put for camp," whispered Dick, "or that fellow will slip around us and pillage the supplies before we get there."

Dave started back at a dog trot, Dick following at a more leisurely gait. Both were soon by the campfire again.

"Was it the same fellow?" demanded Darry, in a low voice.

"It must have been," Dick nodded, "though you didn't see him at all when you encountered him, and I didn't get a view of his face. But he had on a tan colored shirt. He also had on brown corduroy trousers and low-cut black shoes. He kept his torn cap pulled down over his eyes so that I couldn't get a look at his face that would enable me to know it again if I saw it."

"Hang the fellow!" growled Darry. "Does he take us for a human meal ticket with six coupons?"

"He must be hungry," rejoined Dick, "when he could get away with all that steak and then come back, within a few hours, for more of our food."

"How did you come to catch him?" Dave asked curiously.

Prescott explained how he had managed to remain awake and on guard, against a possible second visit from the young prowler.

"So we've got to stay up the rest of the night, and mount guard every night, have we?" grunted Darry disgustedly. "Fine!"

"We'll either have to watch, or part with our food," Dick assented.

"We ought to have brought Harry Hazelton's bull-dog. That would have spared us guard duty."

"I'm glad we didn't bring the pup," Dick rejoined. "That pup is growing older, and crosser. He'd bite a pound or two out of some prowler's leg, and we don't want that to happen."

"Why not?" demanded Dave grimly, opening his eyes very wide.

Dick laughed softly by way of answer.

"I'd just as soon have a tramp chewed up as have our food supplies vanish," Darry maintained.

"Little David, your temper has the upper hand of you at this moment," laughed Prescott.

"When that temper is on top you're dangerous—almost bloodthirsty. When your temper is in check you're as kind and gentle as any good-natured fellow. You wouldn't really want to see any human being mangled by a bull-pup's teeth."

"Well, maybe not mangled," Darry agreed. "But I don't believe Harry's pup would do any more than take hold—and keep hold."

"We won't have the pup, anyway," Dick replied, in a low voice.

"Why not?" Dave again demanded.

"Because, as you know well enough, Harry's father was afraid the pup would only get us into trouble by chewing up someone, and so declined to let us bring the dog."

"That was a shame," Dave insisted.

"I don't think so. If six of us can't take care of one stray tramp, not much larger than any of us, then we're too tender, and ought to be sleeping in little white cribs at home."

"Oh, stop that talk!" urged Dave.

"I mean what I said," Dick retorted. "We're big enough, and numerous enough, to guard our own camp."

"Of course we are; but we'll have to give up some sleep to accomplish that," Dave contended.

"Whoever loses sleep in the night time can make it up in the day time. And now, Darry, get to bed!"

"But we've got to remain on watch."

"You'll feel bad, in the morning, if deprived of your sleep. I'll stay up for a while yet, and then call Tom Reade."

"So I'm no good for guard duty, eh?" snorted Darry.

"Not a bit," said Dick cheerfully. "You're as sleepy and as cross as can be, right at this minute. Go and tuck in, Davy."

Darrin snorted again, then glared at Dick's placid face. Suddenly Dave broke into a hearty chuckle, slapping his chum on the back.

"You're all right, Dick," he declared. "You know how to keep your temper, talk smoothly, and yet hit harder than if you used a club. No, sirree! I'm not cross, even though I may be tired. I'm not cross, and I can thrash into subjection any fellow who dares hint that I'm cross, or that my temper is on a rampage. You go and turn in, Dick."

"Not yet."

"Then we'll both stay up and watch together."

"I'll tell you what," proposed Dick.

"Well?"

"Bring your cot out here. I'll let you sleep for an hour by my watch. Then I'll call you, and you hold the watch and let me sleep for an hour. There is no sense in both of us losing our rest at the same time. Yet, if either fellow needs the other, he'll have him right under his hand."

"All right," nodded Dave. "Anything, as long as I'm not accused of being a sleepy head."

"A sleepy head?" Prescott repeated. "Why, when I called to you fellows for help you were the only one who responded. No; I wouldn't call you an incurable sleepy head, Darry."

Now wholly restored to good humor Dave went back into the tent, lifting his cot and bringing it out to within a few feet of the campfire.

"You take the first nap, Dick," begged Dave.

"No; you take it."

"But I'm not sleepy; honestly I'm not."

So Prescott lay down on the cot, closing his eyes.

The sunlight, streaming into his face, awakened him.

"Why—why—where's Darry?" thought Dick, sitting up straight.

The sound of deep breathing answered him. Dave sat with his back propped against a tree, sound asleep. He had slept for hours, evidently, having fallen asleep through sheer, uncontrollable drowsiness.

Rising from the cot Dick stretched himself for he was still drowsy. Then he tip-toed over to where the food was stored, peering in.

"I can't see that our friend, the enemy, has been here again," Dick smiled. He glanced at Darry, but did not awake that tired youngster.

As noiselessly as he could Prescott busied himself with starting a small campfire that could be made larger when needed. This done, he set water to boil.

"Ho-hum!" yawned Tom Reade, dressed only in underclothes and trousers, as he stood in the tent doorway half an hour later.

Dick placed his fingers to his lips, whispering:

"Don't rouse the other fellows. They're tired."

"Darry certainly looks tired," smiled Tom, regarding Dave in the uncomfortable posture by the tree.

Yet, though he must have been quite uncomfortable had he been awake, Darry slumbered on. Greg came out, looked at Dave and smiled. Then Hazelton, next Dalzell, came outside.

"What is the cot doing out here?" Danny Grin was the first to inquire.

"We had a visit from the prowler in the night," Dick replied, "and Dave and I stayed on guard."

"Was Darry as efficient all through the guard tour as he is just now?" demanded Reade ironically.

"That's all right for you fellows," retorted Dick, "who even slept right past my call for help. Let Dave alone. Let him finish his nap, no matter how long he sleeps."

But at that moment Darrin opened his eyes, then leaped to his feet, a victim of red-faced confusion.

"What are all you fellows laughing at?" Dave demanded.

So far none had done more than grin, but now a very general roar went up.

"I'm a chump, on guard duty, and I admit it," Darrin went on, looking sheepish. "Dick, when you found me asleep why didn't you call me?"

"Because," Prescott answered, "when you went to sleep I judged that you did so because you needed the rest."

"I must have been sound asleep from at least one o'clock in the morning," Dave went on ruefully. "Oh, I am a fellow to be trusted, I am!"

"If you've been sleeping, with your back against that tree, from one in the morning, you must be as stiff and lame as you could possibly be," Reade suggested.

"I am pretty lame," Darrin confessed.

"Are you fellows ever going to hustle about and make some moves toward getting breakfast?" inquired young Prescott.

"What have you been doing in that line?" Danny Grin wanted to know.

For answer Dick Prescott pointed to the merrily blazing campfire and the steaming kettle of water.

"I am ready to do a lot more, too," Dick added, "as soon as the rest of you will show signs of life."

At that there was a general bustling.

"Why didn't you wake me up in time to save me from all the joshing?" Darry demanded, with a note of reproach in his voice, as soon as he got a chance to speak with Dick alone. "Tom Reade won't be through all summer with tormenting me about being asleep at the switch."

"No one would have known anything about it, if you hadn't given it away yourself, both by look and words," Prescott returned. "I hadn't said a word that enlightened anyone."

Breakfast was soon ready, for hungry boys, in the woods, are always ready to eat.

While the meal was being disposed of Prescott told his chums of the visit during the night, and of his own share and Dave's in trying to nab the tantalizing prowler.

"How many such regiments of guards as Darry, would it take to guard this camp properly at night?" asked Tom dryly.

"It seems to me," Prescott remarked, "that you fellows will do very well to sing mighty low about Dave's drowsiness. When I had to call for help last night he was the only one with an ear quick enough to hear me and come to my support. What was the matter with the rest of you, sleepy heads, or did you hear and feel that it might be dangerous to turn out in the middle of the night?"

That last taunt had the desired effect. Darrin was allowed to eat his breakfast in peace.

After the meal was over the boys sat around the camp for a few minutes. Each hated to be the first to make a move toward the drudgery of dish-washing and camp cleaning.

"After we get things to rights," inquired Reade, "what is to be the programme for the day?"

"There's a pond east of us that is said to hold perch," Dave answered. "I'm going to take fishing tackle and go in search of a mess of fish. Anyone going with me?"

"I will," offered Danny Grin.

"As for me," spoke up Tom, "I have a line on a place where blueberries grow in profusion. Harry, will you go along with me and pick berries?"

"If it isn't over five miles away," Hazelton assented cautiously.

"Then what are we going to do!" asked Greg Holmes, turning to Prescott.

"From the plans we've heard laid down," smiled Dick, "I think we will have to stay right here and keep the prowler from dropping in to carry away the rest of our provisions."

"Bother such sport as that!" snorted Greg.

"Humph! It may turn out to be the liveliest sport of all," declared Dick dryly. "Certainly if that fellow turns up it will take two of us to handle him with comfort. He's a tough customer."

"Dan, you always were an artist with a shovel," suggested Darry insinuatingly. "Suppose you get out the spade and see what sort of perch bait you can turn up in this neighborhood."

"Me?" drawled Dalzell protestingly. "Shucks! I'm no good at finding bait. Never was."

"Get the spade and try," ordered Darry. "If you don't find some bait we'll have to put off fishing until some other day."

That brought Dan to terms. He shouldered a spade, picked up an empty vegetable can and started away, while Dave began to sort tackle and to rig on hooks suitable for catching perch. Tom and Harry started in to unpack supplies from a pair of six-quart pails that they needed for the morning's work.

"Say, hear that, fellows!" demanded Tom, straightening up suddenly.

From the distance to the northward came a dull rumbling sound.

"Thunder?" suggested Danny Grin, glancing wonderingly up at the clear sky.

"If there's a storm coming it will upset a day's berrying," Reade announced.

"Fellows," Dick broke in, "it's a rumbling, yet it doesn't sound just like thunder, either. It sounds more like——"

"Cavalry on a gallop," suggested Greg.

"Just what it does sound a lot like," Prescott nodded. Then he dropped to the ground, holding one ear close to the earth.

"And, whatever the rumble may be," Prescott went on, "it travels along the ground. Just get your ears down, fellows."

"It's something big, and it's moving this way," cried Dave.

"It can't be cavalry," Tom argued. "There are no manoeuvres on; there is no state camp ever held in this part of the state, either. What do you——"

But Dick Prescott was up on his feet by this time. Furthermore, he was running. He stopped at the base of the trunk of the first tall tree. Up he went with much of the speed of a squirrel. Higher and higher he made his way among the branches.

"Say, be careful there, Dick!" called Tom Reade, warningly. "If you get a tumble——"

"I'm not a booby, I hope," Dick called down, as he went to still loftier heights. He was now among the slender uppermost branches, where a boy would need to be a fine climber in order to make such swift progress. Even Dick Prescott might readily enough snap a branch now, and come tumbling to earth.

"Stop!" warned Tom. "If you don't you'll butt your head into a cloud, the first thing you know."

"Can you see anything?" called Danny Grin.

"I see quite a cloud of dust to the northward."

"How far off?" asked Dave.

"About a mile, I should say, and it's headed this way, coming closer every minute."

"What's behind the cloud? Can you make out?" Greg bawled up.

"I'm trying to see," Dick replied. "There, I got a glimpse then. It's some kind of animals, heading for this camp at a gallop."

"It can't be cavalry," shouted Reade. "You don't see any men, do you?"

"No," Prescott called down, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Say, fellows!"

"Have you guessed what it is?" demanded Harry Hazelton.

"I know what it is—now!" Dick answered. Then he began to descend the tree with great speed.

"Careful, there!" shouted Tom Reade. "That isn't a low baluster you're sliding down."

"Keep quiet, until I reach the ground," gasped Dick. As he came nearer those below saw that he looked truly startled.

Then Dick reached the low branches, and began to look for a chance to jump.

"We've got to get out of here, fellows!" he called. "You know the trick that cattle—owners have in this part of the county of turning their cattle out to graze in one bunch. That bunch is headed this way—hundreds strong, and it's going to rush through this camp, trampling everything in the way!"

VII. FIGHTING THE MAD STAMPEDE

"Nothing doing, and don't get excited," replied Tom Reade, shaking his head.

"There will be a lot doing in three or four minutes," Prescott retorted excitedly. "The cattle are stampeded, and they'll sweep through here like a cyclone."

"The trees will break up the stampede," Tom insisted coolly.

"Not much they won't," Dick answered. "The cattle are headed along a natural lane, where the trees are less thick than in other parts of the forest."

"The trees will stop 'em before they get here," Reade insisted.

"The trees will do nothing of the sort," uttered Dick, glancing swiftly about him. "The cattle are among the trees already. Just hear that rumble. And it's a lot closer now."

"I reckon we'd better move, do it now, and do it fast," cried Hazelton, who knew that Dick's judgment was generally the best.

"And leave our camp to be trampled down and made a complete wreck by a lot of crazy cattle?" gasped Greg Holmes.

"I'd rather have the camp trampled than my face," retorted Dalzell.

"I don't want to flee from here and leave the camp to be destroyed, and our summer's fun spoiled," protested Greg. "We must stop the cattle, or split their stampede."

"All right, Holmesy," agreed Tom ironically. "I appoint you to do my full share in stopping a stampede of cattle." Reade's face had suddenly grown very grave as he now realized that the trees were not stopping the frenzied cattle.

Dick, who had been thinking, suddenly wheeled, making a break for the supplies.

"Get a box of matches, each one of you!" he shouted. "Then sprint with me for that patch of sun-baked grass just north of us."

"What's the idea?" Dave asked, but Dick was already running fast.

"Get your matches and come on!" Dick called back over his shoulder.

As speedily as could be done the others followed suit. Dick reached the sun-burned strip of grass, whose nearer edge was some two hundred yards north of camp.

"Hey! He's starting a forest fire!" gasped Dan Dalzell, as he caught sight of young Prescott bending over the dried, yellowish grass.

"Scatter, all along the strip!" shouted Prescott, rising as soon as he had ignited a clump of grass. "Get this whole strip of burned grass blazing. It's the only chance to save the camp—or ourselves!"

Dalzell shivered. Nor could Dan understand how such a course would serve to save their camp. But he saw the others following their leader's orders.

"Get over the ground, Dan!" bellowed Dick, as he sprinted to another point. "Start a lot of blazes!"

So Danny Grin fell in line with the movements of the others, though he felt not a little doubt as to the wisdom of the course.

Flame was now spurting up over more than an acre of the sun-baked strip of grass.

"Get a lot more of the grass going, fellows!" panted Dick, who was working like a beaver and dripping with perspiration. "It's our only hope. Hustle!"

With the flames arose a dense cloud of smoke. As the wind was from the southwest the smoke was in the faces of the onrushing cattle.

"There! We've done all we can!" bellowed Dick, running down the line formed by his chums. "Now, get back out of this roasting furnace."

Close to the edge of the burning strip of grass the six high school boys now stood side by side gazing at their work.

"We'd better scoot!" counseled Danny Grin.

"Where can we go?" Dick shouted, in order to make himself heard over the crackling flames and the greater noise of the pounding hoofs. "If we're not safe behind a curtain of flame, there is no other place near where we'd be safer."

Danny Grin turned to bolt, but Darry reached out, catching him by the collar and throwing him to the ground.

"Don't be a fool, Danny, and don't be panic stricken," Darrin advised. "We're safer here, at least, than we can be anywhere else within a quarter of a mile."

The bellow of a bull through the forest—a bellow taken up by other bulls—made all of the boys quake in their shoes. But none of the lads ran away.

Gazing between the trees they soon made out a stirring sight.

On came the stampede, cattle packed so tightly that any animal falling could only be trampled to death by those behind.

"My, but that's a grand sight!" cried Tom Reade.

Not one of the six boys but longed to take to his heels. To them it seemed absolutely impossible for the cattle to turn aside as they must dash on through the blazing grass, such was the pressure from behind. Yet not one of Dick & Co. turned to run.

Suddenly three of the bulls went down to their knees, snorting and bellowing furiously. Half a dozen cows held back from the flames, only to be trampled and killed.

Somehow, the powerful bulls staggered to their feet, then broke to one side.

A dozen more cows plunged on into the blazing grass, then sank, overcome by the heat.

It seemed like a miracle as, following the bulls, the herd split, some going east, others west, and carrying the swerving cattle after them in two frantic streams.

In some way that the boys could not understand, the pressure of cattle from the rear accommodated itself to the movement of the forepart of the herd. The herd divided now swept on rapidly, going nearly east and west in two sections.

Not until some six hundred crazy cattle had passed out of view did the boys feel like speaking. Indeed, they felt weak from the realization of the peril they had so narrowly escaped.

"I think, fellows," proposed Dave Darrin huskily at last, "that we owe a whopping big vote of thanks to good old Dick Prescott!"

"After we pass that vote," proposed Hazelton, "we'd better make all haste to get out of these woods before the owner of this stretch of forest comes along to nab the fellows who set his timber afire."

"Do you see any trees ablaze?" Dick demanded.

Now, for the first time, two or three of the fellows began to realize the value of Dick's idea. The sun-burned grass, some three acres in extent, was a clearing devoid of trees. Here the July heat had baked the turf. On all sides, under the trees beyond, the grass was still green. Any boy who has ever been in the country knows that green grass won't burn. Hence the blaze was limited to a small area. A few trees whose trunks were near the edge of the clearing were smoking slightly, but no damage was done to the timber. There was really no work to be done in extinguishing this fire, which, furious while it lasted, was now dying out.

"Let's get back and see how our camp fared," proposed Hazelton.

"We don't have to," Dick replied. "We saw the directions taken by the cattle, and they didn't go anywhere near our camp. Let's wait, and, as soon as the ground is cool enough, let's get out to the injured cows, and see if we can help any of them."

Hardly had Dick spoken when one of the cows, right at the edge of the blackened clearing, rose clumsily, then moved slowly northward. Presently another cow followed suit.

"We can get over the ground now," said Dick. "Let's go out and look at these animals."

They counted eight dead cows, their unwieldy carcasses lying motionless on the burned grass.

"Probably killed by the hot air that they drew into their lungs," commented Tom Reade.

"We killed the poor beasts," said Danny Grin, with a catch in his breath.

"Perhaps we did," Dick admitted. "But we had to do something. Anyhow, we broke the force of the stampede, and, if that hadn't been checked, a still greater number of cows would have been killed. They would have fallen, exhausted, and then they would have been trampled on and killed by the plunging cattle behind them."

"That's true enough," nodded Tom. "Even if we did kill a few, I guess we're more entitled to praise than reproach."

Two more cows presently got up and limped away, but there were four others still alive, yet too badly hurt to attend to themselves.

Nor could the high school boys help, further than by carrying buckets of water to the suffering animals. Dick & Co. had no firearms along, and could not put the injured cows out of their misery.

"Now, let's get out of here," urged Dick at last. "We can't do any good here, and this is no pleasant sight to gaze upon."

"It seems too bad to leave all this prime roast beef on the ground, doesn't it?" hinted Tom. "And we fellows have such good appetites."

"The cattle are not ours," Dick rejoined. "We have no right to help ourselves to any cuts of meat from the dead animals."

So they returned to the camp, which they found, of course, quite undisturbed.

It so happened that the four members of the party who had proposed going to other scenes for the forenoon forgot their projects.

VIII. VISITORS FOR THE FEAST

Bang! bang! sounded in the direction of the burned-over clearing.

"Let's go over and see what that means," proposed Tom.

He jumped up, ready to sprint over to the clearing.

"If you want advice," Dick offered, "I'd say to wait until the shooting is over. You might stop a stray bullet not intended for us."

"But what can the shooting mean" wondered Greg.

"When anyone is turning bullets loose," remarked Darry, "I'm not too inquisitive."

So the boys waited until the firing had ceased. Then they heard what sounded like the noise of a horse moving through the brush.

"Hello, there!" called Dick.

"Hello, yourself!" came the answer, and a mounted man rode into view. He did not look especially ugly or dangerous; his garb was plainly intended for the saddle. As he came into sight the man slipped a heavy automatic revolver into a saddle holster.

"What was up?" inquired Dick, rising and going forward to meet the newcomer.

"Stampede," replied the other briefly.

"We know something about that," Dick rejoined.

"Do you know anything about the burning of the clearing?" asked the horseman, reining up and eyeing the lads keenly.

"Yes, sir; we fired the grass," Prescott acknowledged.

"To break the stampede?"

"No, sir; to save our camp, which would have been destroyed."

"Shake," invited the stranger, riding forward and bending over to hold out his hand. "Your fire cost us a few cattle, but I reckon it saved the destruction of a lot more, for there would have been many of 'em killed if they had charged on into the deeper forest."

"Then the stampede has been stopped?" asked Prescott.

"Yes; two of my men followed the parted trails, and came back to report the two herds halted and grazing. My name is Ross. I'm the owner of about a fourth of the cattle in the big herd."

"I hope you don't feel angry with us for doing the best we could to save our camp," Dick went on.

"You saved myself and the other owners a greater loss," replied Mr. Ross, "so I thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Ross," smiled Tom Reade. "But what was the shooting about?"

"I shot some of the cattle that appeared to be still alive, to put an end to their suffering. You boys haven't any ice here, have you?"

"No, sir," Dick replied.

"Too bad," said Mr. Ross. "If you had ice I could offer you a prime lot of beef that it will hardly pay me to move, as I can't get the animals cut up quickly enough and on ice, after the long haul I would have to make."

"Are you going to leave the cattle on the clearing?" Dick asked in sudden concern.

"We'll bury the carcasses," smiled Mr. Ross. "If we didn't the smell would soon force you boys to move your camp a mile or two. But see here! Ever have a barbecue?"

"No, sir," Dick made answer, his voice betraying sudden interest.

"Would you like one?" went on the owner. "A barbecue, real western style, with a whole cow on the fire?"

"It would be great!" answered nearly all of Dick & Co. in concert.

"Then we'll have one, as soon as I can call my men in," replied Mr. Ross cheerfully. "I'm bound to get some good out of the dead cattle."

"We'll want a lot of firewood for that, won't we?" asked Dick, his eyes gleaming.

"More than a little," nodded Mr. Ross. "And big wood, at that."

"Dave, you and Tom had better take the axes and get some real wood," Prescott called. "Harry and Dan will help you and bring it in. Where shall we put the wood, Mr. Ross?"

"In the middle of the burnt clearing will be better," replied the cattle owner. "Then the fire won't have a chance to spread in any direction. Besides, you won't want the heat of a great fire too close to your camp. After the meat is cooked we can bring it over here. Have you boys plenty of canned vegetables and the like?"

"Plenty, sir," Dick answered cheerily, though his heart sank a trifle as he thought of how the cattle owner and his helpers might clean out their stock.

Dick and Greg busied themselves with carrying over to the clearing such things as Mr. Ross said that they would need. Then it was decided that the vegetables should be cooked at the camp.

"Let me see your stock of provisions and perhaps I may get another idea," proposed the cattle owner. "I see that you have flour, and oh, yes; you have all that will be needed for a pudding, and one of my men knows how to make one of the best boiled puddings you ever ate out under the sky."

Drawing a small horn from one of his side pockets, Mr. Ross blew a long, shrill blast.

"Jim will come in as soon as possible, after hearing that sound," smiled the cattle owner.

Jim Hornby rode in within five minutes. He was a lean, long, roughened and reddened farm laborer, but when told that a boiled pudding was wanted he walked straight to the place where the supplies were kept.

"Everything here but berries," Jim explained. "Any of you boys know where to get some blueberries?"

Greg knew, and promptly departed with a pail.

Crackle! Crackle! Two brisk fires were now going in the burnt clearing, started by Dick at Mr. Ross' direction. By this time Mr. Ross' other helper had come in, reporting that the cattle were quiet and grazing, and now this helper and his employer began to remove the hide from one of the cows.

"This cow was overcome by smoke and hot air as soon as it rushed into the blaze," explained Mr. Ross. "Therefore, this will be safe meat to eat. When an animal, however, dies in pain, after much suffering, its flesh should never be used for food. Bill, now that we've gotten the hide off you mount and ride back to the wagon. Bring it along."

Dan and Harry were still bringing in heavy firewood and stacking it up, while the ring of axes in the hands of Dave and Tom was heard. It was a busy scene.

"Prescott, you'd better begin piling on the big wood now," suggested Mr. Ross, after noting the sun's position.

Things moved rapidly along.

"You might as well halt your wood cutters, unless you want their product for your own camp," suggested the cattle owner, and Prescott sent the word to stop chopping.

Within twenty minutes the big wagon, drawn by a pair of mules, came up with Bill Hopple driving and his horse tied to the tailboard.

With a speed and skill born of long practice, Mr. Ross began to cut up the carcass of the cow. Bill was busy making greenwood spits and arranging them over the two fires, Dan and Harry helping him.

Almost at a dead run came Greg Holmes through the woods, with two quarts of blueberries. Over at the camp, as soon as he saw the berries, Jim Hornby began mixing his pudding batter. He had already prepared his fire and had found a suitable kettle.

From watching the pudding game, Tom strolled through to the two fires in the clearing.

"This begins to look like a fine chance to eat," sighed Tom full of contentment.

"Doing anything, Reade?" inquired the cattle owner, who had quickly learned all their names.

"No, sir."

"Then suppose you take this heart of the cow over to your camp. Put it on the fire in a kettle of salted water, and let it boil slowly. By that means you will be able to serve up the heart for your evening meal."

"Is there no end to this cow?" gasped Tom.

"Well, a good-sized cow provides several hundred pounds of meat," replied Mr. Ross. "Oh, what a shame that you boys have no ice, and no way of getting it or keeping it! I could fix you for a month's supply of meat!"

"Dick, do you remember what we came out here in the woods for?" queried Tom.

"To camp, and have a good time," Prescott laughed. "And, so far, we win. We're having a bully time!"

"What else did we come out here for?"

"To harden and train ourselves so that we can make a hard try for the Gridley High School football eleven this fall."

"Will a week of training table undo the harm of to-day's big feasts?" groaned Reade.

"No fellow is obliged to make a glutton of himself," retorted Dick.

"Maybe not," quoth Tom, "but everyone of us will be sorely tempted. You ought to see that pudding that Jim Hornby is putting up."

"Young man, are you going to get that heart to cooking before it goes bad in the sun?" asked Mr. Ross sharply.

Tom meekly turned and started toward camp.

"What's Greg doing?" Dick called after him.

"Holmesy is watching, learning the way Jim Hornby puts up a boiled pudding," Reade called back.

Honk! honk! sounded an automobile horn from the rough trail of a roadway an eighth of a mile away. The honking continued until Dick, realizing that it was a signal, gave a loud halloo.

"Is that Prescott's camp?" called a voice.

"It's the camp of Prescott and his friends," Dick shouted back.

"Get ready for visitors, then!" called the voice again, and this time Dick recognized the voice as that of Dr. Bentley.

"We won't eat you out of supplies, though," called the doctor, now heading through the forest. "We're bringing with us our own cold lunch."

"Cold lunch!" Dick chuckled back. "You won't be able to eat it after you see what we have!"

Through the trees now the fluttering of skirts could be seen. High school girls were on their way to share the barbecue, though as yet they did not know of the treat in store for them.

IX. DICK'S WOODLAND DISCOVERY

"You couldn't have come at a finer time!" cried Dick joyously, as he raced to meet the most welcome visitors.

"We're barbecuing a whole cow."

"Then I trust, Prescott, that you came honestly by the cow," rejoined Dr. Bentley his eyes twinkling.

Besides Dr. and Mrs. Bentley, there were eight girls. The visitors quickly explained that, besides the Bentley touring car, that of the Sharps was being used on this expedition, Susie Sharp being one of the girls of the party. The Sharps did not employ a chauffeur, but their general man knew how to run the car, and he was now engaged in taking the cars to a spot well off the road.

"I'll send one of the fellows to get him," Dick promised, as he led the numerous though welcome guests to camp.

"Lucky I made a special big pudding," grinned Jim Hornby.

"The girls may have my share," gallantly offered Tom Reade, though he groaned under his breath.

"There's pudding enough for a lot more people than we have here," returned Jim. "I don't bother making small puddings."

The boys were all called in quickly to greet the girls and Dr. and Mrs. Bentley. Of course, the girls had to see the interior of the tent, and all the arrangements of the camp.

"I wish I were a boy," sighed Laura Bentley enviously.

"I'm glad you're not," spoke Dick gallantly. "You're ever so much nicer as a girl."

Honk! honk! sounded over by the road. The noise continued.

"Greg," said Dick, "that's Miss Sharp's father's man. Evidently he wants something. You'd better run over."

In less than five minutes back came Greg with three other men, all of them unexpected. Mr. Alonzo Hibbert, minus his four-quart hat, and wearing a flat straw hat instead, as well as light clothes and silk negligee shirt, came in advance of Tom Colquitt, the man from Blinders' detective agency. Still to the rear of them was a third man, slightly bent and looking somewhat old, though there were no gray streaks in his light brown hair.

"How do you do, boys?" called Mr. Hibbert airily, as he came swiftly forward. "We saw a big smoke over this way, and so we stopped to find out what was the matter. Young Holmes has asked us to stop for your barbecue, but it looks to me like a terrible imposition on you, and so——"

Here Mr. Hibbert paused, looking highly embarrassed as he caught sight of Mrs. Bentley and the girls coming out of the tent.

"You already have other company," murmured Hibbert apologetically. "No; most decidedly we must not intrude on you."

"How do you do, Mr. Colquitt?" was Dr. Bentley's greeting. Then other introductions followed, and, ere he knew it, Hibbert and his friends were members of the party and destined to partake of the barbecue feast.

The oldish-looking man with the new arrivals proved to be Mr. Calvin Page.

"He's the millionaire father of the missing boy that Colquitt and I are trying to find," Hibbert explained to Dick.

"Have you any clue, as yet?" Prescott inquired.

"Nothing worth while," sighed Lon Hibbert.

"It's too bad," murmured Dick. "Mr. Page is a fine-looking man, but he must be lonely."

"He is," agreed Lon Hibbert.

"His wife is dead, isn't she?"

"Yes; and Page would give the world to find that boy of his."

"Perhaps if he doesn't find his son it may be as well," Dick hinted.

"Why, as well?"

"The missing son, brought up by others, might have turned out badly," Prescott suggested.

"Pooh!" quickly rejoined Lon Hibbert. "That missing son, no matter how wild or bad he may be, is still young enough to reform. Prescott, no matter how bad that son may be, it will be a blessing for my friend Page to find his boy! I pray that it may be my good fortune to run across that son, one of these days, and that I may be the first to recognize the boy."

"Prescott," broke in Mr. Ross, coming forward, "you don't begin to have enough knives, forks and plates to take care of this crowd, do you?"

"I'm sorry to say that we haven't," Dick smiled. "But we'll manage that all right. My friends and I will play waiters, and sit at second table after the dishes have been washed."

"You won't have to," replied the cattle owner. "I have a folding table and dishes in my wagon, and I'll send Bill Hopple after 'em."

So the tables were set under the shade of the trees, not far from the campfire. The Sharps man came up, and was seated with Jim and Bill. Everything being now cooked, the feast began.

"I've never had anything as wonderful as this happen to me before," cried Belle Meade, as she seated herself and looked over the two tables with sparkling eyes. "Girls, we didn't look forward to such a treat as this when we left Gridley this morning."

"You intended to look in on us, didn't you?" inquired Darry.

"Yes; but we brought our own luncheons," said Laura. "We didn't expect you to do anything for us—unless you boys had happened to catch a mess of fish."

"We were planning to go fishing this morning," Tom Reade explained, "although we do not know whether the fishing near here amounts to much. May I pass you some of this sirloin, Miss Marshall?"

Gay spirits ruled, as they usually do and always should when young people are together out in the open, far from studies or from any of the other cares of life.

Dick told the story of the stampede, while Mr. Ross added much about the peculiarities of stampeding cattle and the impossibility of controlling the animals while their mad fright lasts.

"I am certain that this is the finest meal I have ever eaten," declared Mr. Page, who, up to the present, had been rather silent.

"There is only one thing it needs," rejoined Mr. Ross. "If we had about six roasted ears of corn for each diner then this barbecue would be a huge success."

"Not even the corn could improve it," declared Laura Bentley, as Dick helped her to more of the roasted meat.

"Don't forget that pudding, ladies and gentlemen!" called out Jim Hornby, from where he sat. "That pudding is my best kind, and the best one of its kind that I ever turned out. When you have the pudding you won't be thinking of a little thing like roasted ears of corn."

"No more, thank you," replied Clara Marshall, as Greg tried to secure her plate in order to help her to more food.

"Until the pudding comes on," prompted Jim Hornby.

"Until the pudding arrives," smiled Clara.

"But no one may think of having pudding yet," insisted Mr. Ross, with mock gravity. "I forbid that anyone should have pudding, or even think of it, until we have tried the one really delicious dish of this feast."

"And what may that be?" called Dr. Bentley.

"The best part of the cow," replied Mr. Ross.

"A big rib roast, served with cracked bones with the marrow cooked in them. Come along, Bill. We'll bring back the roast and the marrow."

Ross and his man moved briskly out of sight. Only a few moments had passed when Mr. Ross' voice was heard from the clearing:

"Thieves! The rib roast is gone—so is the marrow!"

Dick glanced swiftly at his chums. The same idea was in the minds of all the members of Dick & Co.

"Our friend, the prowler, has been here," muttered Prescott, rising hastily. "This thing has got to be stopped. Come along, fellows! Friends, please excuse us for a few moments."

At a dog trot Dick led the way to the clearing. There stood Mr. Ross, looking the picture of indignation.

"I didn't know there were tramps in these woods," muttered the cattle owner.

"Tramp, thief, or whatever he is," exclaimed Dick Prescott, "that fellow must move on out of this part of the country. If he doesn't we'll catch him. After we get through with him, he'll be glad enough to move on."

"If he's able," added Dave Darrin significantly.

"Oh, what's the use of making a fuss, this time?" demanded Tom Reade good-humoredly. "For once we have so much meat that we could spare a hungry man two hundred pounds and not miss it."

"It's the principle of the thing," muttered Dick, who was studying the ground intently. "That big, hulking fellow doesn't care a rap whether we have plenty, or whether he takes all we have. We've got to suppress him. We must catch him, and put a stop to his thieving. See! Here's where he went off through the woods. Come on! We'll trail him!"

"And, if we find him?" asked Greg.

"We'll try to reason with the fellow," responded Prescott rather grimly.

Just as the boys started off on the trail that Prescott had discovered, other figures appeared on the scene.

"Now, may I ask what you girls are doing here?" asked Tom, his tone more agreeable than his words.

"We want to see the fun, whatever is going to happen," declared Susie Sharp.

"Oh, there will be plenty of that, I promise you, if we can find the fellow," asserted Darry bluntly.

"Come along, girls!" cried Belle Meade gleefully.

"But there may be something disagreeable happen, you know, girls," Dick warned them. "If we overtake this fellow there may be a fight."

"If you could call it a fight, when six Gridley high school boys attack one man, then I shall have to change my mind about our high school boys," hinted Laura Bentley teasingly.

It was plain enough that the girls were bent on following them, so no more objections were raised.

"We'll travel so fast that the girls won't be able to keep up," whispered Tom Reade to Dick. "We'll lose 'em, and they'll be glad to hike back to the table."

This, however, proved to be not quite as easy as had been expected. The trail into the woods was rather a plain one, though it could not be followed at a run.

"Keep behind me, fellows," urged Dick. "If you keep up with me you may blot out the trail."

So his five chums came after him, with the girls in the rear, in a straggling line.

Into the deepest woods the trail led. "The girls will soon tire of this chase, and face about," Tom told Darry.

Which was precisely what happened.

In the deepest part of the woods Dick parted a tangle of bushes through which the trail led. Then, in a voice vibrant with agitation, he shouted:

"Come on, fellows! Quick!"

X. SETTING A NEW TRAP

What Dick had caught sight of, and what had made him call to his chums was the figure of the camp prowler partially dressed seated on the edge of a pool of water fed by a forest brook where evidently he had been bathing.

He had heard Dick's cry, however. These few instants of time had been enough for the bather to jump up, snatch up the remainder of his clothes and set off through the woods with the speed of an antelope.

"Come on!" cheered Dick Prescott. "Full speed! We'll catch him. He hasn't his shoes on, and his bare feet will soon go lame on the twigs and stones that he'll step on in running. He can't go far before we nab him."

"Spread out, fellows!" called Tom Reade. "Don't let the rascal slip through our line. Dick, did you get a good look at him?"

"A fine peep," Prescott affirmed.

"Was he the thief?" Dave demanded.

"The very fellow!" Dick called back, for he was still in the lead.

"Don't talk any more," Reade warned his friends cautiously. "We'll use up our wind."

As he ran Dick had an important secret on his mind. This was not quite the time to impart it to his chums, however, so he held his peace and did his best to save his wind.

Thus half a mile, at least, was quickly traversed. By this time the high school boys, running as they had done, began to feel winded.

"I can't go any further," gasped Hazelton, halting and leaning against a tree.

"I'm in the same fix," muttered Danny Grin. as he, too, came to a stop.

Reade, Darrin and Prescott ran on some distance farther, but at last Dick called a brief signal for a halt.

"Where are you, friend?" bawled Dick, using his last wind in one resolute vocal effort.

"Friend!" scoffed Reade.

"Of course the fellow will call and tell us where he is!" jeered Darry.

"We won't hurt you—won't try to," Dick promised solemnly, again sending his voice as far as he could make it travel. "All we want to do is to talk to you—and we're friends honestly!"

"Say, what are you trying to give that thief?" protested Tom, in an indignant undertone.

"Why are you telling him we're friends, and won't hurt him?" insisted Dave Darrin.

"Because I mean just what I say," retorted Prescott, so crisply that, for the moment, no one pressed him with any more questions.

Dick continued his calls, but received no response.

"By this time that fellow's a mile from here, and still running," mocked Dave.

"Or else he doubled on us, somewhere, and is hidden where he can watch us, and laugh at us slyly," suggested Tom, as the three high school boys turned to walk back to camp.

"If he's hiding on our trail, the thief had better not let me catch him laughing at us!" growled Darry indignantly.

"Now, see here, both of you," Dick Prescott went on, earnestly. "If we come across that fellow, don't either of you make a grab at him. Just let me handle him—and I'll do it by talking alone. We mustn't use our fists."

"You've changed your tune wonderfully within the last few minutes," muttered Dave.

"If I have," Dick answered impressively, "it's because I know something now that I didn't know a little while ago."

"And what's that?" asked Tom eagerly.

"I'll tell all hands presently," Dick answered mysteriously.

"Oh, fudge!" growled Darry, under his breath, for he was fully as curious as Tom Reade had been.

But Dick walked on as briskly as his almost winded condition would permit. So they returned to the place where Harry and Dan awaited them. To these two Dick repeated his instructions in the unlikely case of their meeting the thief during their walk back to camp.

Nothing was seen of the fugitive, however, and the boys picked up Greg Holmes close to the little swimming pool.

"I knew I could not catch up with you fellows," explained Holmes, "so I took the girls back to camp and then put in my time prowling about here and trying to locate the marrow bones that the sneak stole."

"Dick doesn't want us to hurt the fellow, if we run across him," said Dave grimly.

"Why not?" asked Greg, opening his eyes very wide.

"I don't know," sighed Dave. "Ask Dick."

"I'll tell you all by and by," smiled Dick. "But now, let us hurry back to camp. I want to see Mr. Colquitt just as soon as I can."

"Bosh! A detective like Colquitt doesn't take up with such trifling mysteries as missing marrow bones," jibed Reade. "Besides, we can't afford to hire detectives."

"I don't want to hire a detective," Dick replied enigmatically, "but I'd like about one minute's talk with Mr. Colquitt, and I mean to have it. Don't let us dawdle on the way back, fellows."

So the six boys hurried on and soon came within sight of the camp.

"There they come!" cried Belle Meade. "Did you get the thief, boys?"

"No," called Dave, "and it seems that the fellow is no longer a thief, but a distinguished fellow citizen whom we must honor at sight, like a bank draft."

"What are you talking about?" half frowned Belle.

"I haven't the least idea what I am talking about," Dave admitted cheerfully. "You'll have to ask Dick for the map to my few remarks."

"Where are Mr. Colquitt and his party?" Dick demanded.

"Gone," replied Laura Bentley.

"How long ago?" Dick asked, paling somewhat and looking troubled.

"About two minutes ago," replied Dr. Bentley. "They excused themselves and went away in their car."

"Can't you take me in your car, Doctor, and help me to pursue them?" asked Prescott anxiously.

"Yes," agreed Dr. Bentley good-naturedly, "if you've any idea which direction to take in looking for them. A mile to the east three roads cross; half a mile to the west four roads cross. Our friends may be on any one of the seven roads, or they may have gone by a trail of their own."

Dick came to an abrupt stop, clenching his hands tightly.

"Isn't that luck for you?" he demanded ironically. Then, suddenly, his face brightened.

"No matter," he said. "They can be reached through the Eagle Hotel, in Gridley."

"Why should you want to reach them?" asked Laura curiously.

"Will you mind if I keep that to myself, for just a little while?" asked Dick, so pleasantly that Laura took no offense at all.

"How about my pudding?" called Jim. "Anyone going to want any of it?"

Did they? It was enjoyed to the full, and there was pudding left over, to be heated for another meal.

"Now, you boys had better come with me, and I'll show you how to keep some of the cooked meat over, in summer, without ice," proposed Mr. Ross.

"And my party must be getting along, or night will overtake us here," declared Dr. Bentley, rising from what had been a most hospitable board.

"Then fellows, please excuse me if I write a short note and ask Dr. Bentley to mail it," urged Dick.

So Dave Darrin mustered the other chums, marching them off in the wake of Mr. Ross, while Dick hastily scribbled a note, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Alonzo Hibbert, or Thomas Colquitt, Eagle Hotel, Gridley.

As Dick came out his other chums halted their labors long enough to take leave of Dr. Bentley and his party. They escorted the departing guests to their automobiles, and saw them start away.

Such of the roast meat as was to be saved was packed in metal pails, covered, and then the pails lowered into a brook, where the cool water would to a certain extent take the place of ice.

Then Mr. Ross and his helpers removed the folding tables and other loaned articles.

"Thank you, boys, for what you did to break the stampede of the herd," said Mr. Ross, waving his hand after he had sprung up into the saddle.

Once more Dick & Co. had their camp all to themselves.

"I wish we could have such visitors every day," cried Darry enthusiastically.

"Yes," grinned Tom, "but how long would our canned goods hold out? We'd have to be rich, fellows, to entertain so many people every day, even if the meat end of the feast did come to us without cost."

"We want to make the camp shipshape again," Dick remarked, looking about. "There's a lot of refuse food to be burned. Greg, you start a fire. Dan you gather up every scrap of food that must be thrown away and burn it on said fire. Dave, you can set the tent to rights. I'll take an axe and hustle after some firewood. Dave, suppose you help me. Tom might put the camp to rights."

With the labor thus divided all hands set briskly to work. By the time that all the tasks had been performed the boys were glad to lie down on the grass and rest until it was time to prepare a light supper. After that meal was over Dave asked:

"We're going to keep regular guard to-night, aren't we?"

"Yes," Dick answered. "We'll turn in at nine o'clock and keep guard until six in the morning. That will be nine hours—an hour and a half of guard duty for each fellow. Suppose we draw lots to decide the order in which we shall take our tricks of guard duty."

This was done. To Prescott fell the second tour, from ten-thirty until midnight. Reade had the first tour.

At a few minutes after nine all was quiet in the camp. Five tired high school boys were soon sound asleep, with Reade, hidden in the deep shadows, watching outside.

It seemed to young Prescott that he had no more than dropped off into slumber when Tom shook him by the shoulder.

"Half-past ten," whispered Reade, as Dick sat up. "Go out to the wash basin and dash cold water into your eyes. That will open 'em and freshen you up."

"Have you seen anything of the prowler?" whispered Dick, as he got upon his feet.

"Not a sign," declared Tom.

"It would be too early for him to prowl about yet," whispered Dick, as he passed out into the Summer night. "Good night, Tom."

Only a faint stirring of the light breeze in the tree tops, the droning hum of night insects, and the occasional call of a night bird—these were all the sounds that came to the ears of the young camp guard.

Dick dashed the water into his eyes, then felt wonderfully wide awake.

"If Mr. Prowler comes, he'll probably go for the canned vegetables and the biscuit," Prescott decided. "He must already have more meat than he can handle all day to-morrow—if it doesn't spoil."

So Dick posted himself where he could easily watch the approach of any outsider toward the boxes that served as cupboards for the canned supplies.

The time slipped away, until it was nearly midnight, as Prescott knew from stepping into the tent and lighting a match briefly for a swift glimpse at his watch.

As Dick came out of the tent he fancied he heard a distant step, crackling on a broken twig.

"If there's anyone coming I'd better slip into the shadow of the canvas," Prescott told himself, acting accordingly.

Presently the stealthy steps sounded nearer to the camp.

"Someone is coming, as sure as fate," Dick said to himself. "Shall I rouse one or two of the other fellows? But they might alarm the prowler. I'll handle him myself."

XI. A HARD PROWLER TO CATCH

It was the prowler.

Close to the tent he stopped to listen to the heavy breathing that came from the sound young sleepers. Dick crouched farther back into the shadow.

Uttering a low grunt, that was half chuckle, the prowler slipped along in the darkness, making toward the cupboards.

"My friend, I want a little talk with you," suddenly spoke Dick Prescott, slipping up behind the uninvited visitor.

The prowler wheeled quickly about.

"You don't want anything to do with me," he corrected, in a harsh voice. "I could eat two or three like you, and then have plenty of appetite left."

"Perhaps," smiled Dick Prescott undaunted.

"And I'll do it, too, if you don't stand back."

"But I want to talk with you, my friend," Dick insisted.

"I don't want to talk with you," snapped the prowler.

"You would, if you knew what I want to talk with you about," Prescott continued.

"Is it about food?" demanded the young stranger grimly.

"Then it's about jail," sneered the other harshly.

"Why about jail?" asked Dick.

"Because that's where you'd like to see me!"

"Why should I want to see you in jail?" Prescott demanded.

"Because I've been visiting your kitchen," leered the other. "But you can't stop me. Not all of your crowd can stop me!"

"Why do you wish to clean us out of food?" Prescott asked.

"Because I know how to eat," replied the young stranger significantly.

"Is that the only reason you have for trying to clean us all out of food?"

"Why should I have any other reason? And why isn't being hungry a good enough reason?" counter-queried the prowler.

"It has struck me," smiled Dick, "that perhaps you don't want us in these woods, anyway."

"I don't just hanker after your company," admitted the stranger, with gruff candor.

"Are we bothering you any here?"

"No matter," came the sullen retort.

"To return to the first subject, that matter about which I want to talk with you——"

"Not to-night," growled the young prowler. Turning on his heel, he started to walk away.

But Dick kept close at his side.

"Shake my trail, you!" ordered the other gruffly. "If you don't you'll be sorry!"

With that the stranger broke into a loping run. At first glance this gait didn't seem to be a swift one, but it was the long, easy, loping stride of the wolf in motion. Young Prescott found that he had to exert himself in order to keep up with the other.

"Go back to your shack!" ordered the prowler.

"Hold on a minute, so that I can talk with you," urged Prescott.

By this time they were at a considerable distance from the camp. Suddenly the prowler halted, wheeling about like a flash, glaring into young Prescott's eyes.

"Now, I'll learn you!" growled the prowler.

"Do you mean that you'll teach me?" queried Prescott. "What?"

"I'll learn you," growled the other, "not to keep on banging around me when I don't want you!"

"Do you happen to have any idea," Dick persisted coolly, "that your name is probably Page, and that you undoubtedly have a very rich father, who is trying to find you?"

"Where did you read that fairy tale?" sneered the prowler.

"Partly on your skin to-day," Dick rejoined, "when I came upon you as you were dressing near that pool."

"Stop kidding me!" commanded the other sternly. "And now back to you cosy little bed for you! Fade! Vanish! If you don't then you'll soon wish you had!"

But Dick held his ground, despite the very evident sincerity of the other's threat, and gazed unflinchingly back at the prowler.

"Let me tell you," Dick went on. "Of course I cannot be positive, but there is a missing heir who has, on his chest and one shoulderblade just such marks as I saw on you to-day when you were sitting by the pool putting on your shirt?"

"Oh, forget that thrilling stuff!" jeered the other. "Don't you suppose I know who my father is? Old Bill Mosher hasn't suddenly grown rich. How could Bill get rich when he is in jail for drunkenness?"

"So you think your name is Mosher?" pursued Prescott.

"I know it is," replied the prowler harshly. "And, around this neck of the woods a fellow couldn't have a harder, tougher name than Mosher."

"But if your name were really Page——" pressed Dick.

"No use stringing me like that," snapped the other. Even in the darkness, lit only here and there by starlight, the scowl on his face was visible. "Tell you what," declared Mosher, an instant later.

"Well?"

"Beat it!"

"I don't under——"

"Yes, you do," retorted the self-styled Mosher. "Vamoose! Twenty-three in a hurry! Make your get-away!"

"Until I've made you listen to reason," Prescott insisted, "I won't leave you."

"Oh, yes, you will, and right now, or——"

"No!"

"See here!"

Mosher held a hard, horny fist menacing before Dick's face, but the high school boy failed to wince.

"Git! Now, or crawl later!" warned Mosher.

"I'm going to make you listen to——"

"Put up your guard!"

At least Mosher was "square" enough to give warning of his intentions. He threw himself on guard, then waited for perhaps five seconds.

"Are you going to cool down and listen!" demanded Dick Prescott firmly.

Out shot the Mosher youth's left fist. Dick dodged. It was a feint; Dick nearly stopped Mosher's right.

Blows rained in thickly now. Not every one could Prescott dodge, though he was more agile and better trained than this more powerful youth.

At last, smarting from a glancing blow on the nose, Dick darted in and clinched with his adversary. It was bad judgment, but punishment had stung him into desperate recklessness.

"Stop it!" panted the high school boy.

"Won't!" retorted Mosher, increasing his pressure about the smaller boy's waist until Prescott felt dizzy. In that extremity the Gridley boy worked a neat little trip. Down they went, rolling over and over, fighting like wild cats until Mosher secured the upper hand and sat heavily on the high school boy.

"I gave you all the chance I could," growled Mosher, planting blow after blow on Dick's head, face and chest, "and you wouldn't help yourself anyway. Now, you'll take all your medicine, and next time you meet me you'll know enough to leave me alone."

Held as he was, without really a show, Dick Prescott fought as long as he could, and with desperate courage. But at last he felt forced to yell:

"Fellows! Gridley! Here—quickly!"

"They're too far away, and, besides, they're asleep," jeered Mosher, to the accompaniment of three more hard blows. "Now, I reckon you've had enough to know your own business after this and let mine alone. If I had any cord I'd tie you here. As it is——"

Leaping suddenly to his feet, Mosher turned and ran swiftly through the woods.

Dick badly hurt, yet as determined as ever, pursued for a few score of yards. Then realizing that he could hear no sound of the other's steps to guide him in the right direction, the high school boy halted.

"I may as well give it up this time," he said to himself grimly. "Besides, my main job is to guard the camp. If I go roaming through the woods, Mosher, as he calls himself, will double back on the camp and clean out our provisions while I'm groping out here in the dark."

So Dick paused only long enough to make sure of his course back. Then he plodded along, wincing with the pain of many blows that he had received.

"I'm lucky, anyway, that I didn't get an eye bunged up," he reflected. "I smart and I ache, but I can see straight, and I don't believe I've received any blow that will disfigure me for the next few days. My, what a steam hammer that fellow is in a fight! I wonder if he really is the son of that hard character called Bill Mosher?"

As Dick neared the camp he stepped more softly. He wanted to see whether Mosher really had come back.

But no figure was discernible in the clearing beyond the camp. Dick walked in more confidently. His first care was to examine the food supply.

"Nothing gone," Dick murmured. Then he looked about for a stick large enough to serve as a weapon at need. While doing so his glance fell upon an axe.

"I wouldn't use that," Prescott told himself. "But there is no knowing what Mosher would do if he got cornered by more than one of us. Hereafter we mustn't leave this thing outside."

Dick carried the axe into the tent, hiding it without awaking any of the other sleepers. Then he went outside, searching until he found a club that he thought would answer for defense.

Taking this with him he went over to the wash basin, where, wetting a towel, he bathed his battered face.

"Almost one o'clock," he remarked, after striking a match for a look at his watch. "I won't call Dave at all, but will stay up and call Harry at half-past one."

XII. "TAG" IS THE GAME—TAG MOSHER!

"Now, come in with the sprint!" Dick sang out to Hazelton.

"Greg, Dave and Tom, you block him. Get through, Harry—some way! Don't let 'em stop you."

It was three days later, and Dick & Co. were at work at their main task during this summer camping, which was to train hard and try to fit themselves for the football squad when high school should open again.

Hazelton came on, at racing speed. He ducked low, making a gallant effort. He nearly succeeded in getting through, but Tom's tackle brought him to ground just at the right moment.

"Now, try that over again," Prescott said.

So the work went on, vigorously, for another hour—until all of the boys were tired out, hot and panting.

"That's the most grueling work I ever did in the same space of time," muttered Reade, mopping his face.

"Yes; it's the kind of work for which football calls," rejoined Prescott, also mopping his face. "Dan, get up off the ground!"

"I'm hot," muttered Dalzell, "and I'm tired."

"Then rest on a campstool. Don't chill yourself by lying on the ground when you're so warm."

After a few seconds of contemplated mutiny, Danny Grin rose and found a seat on a stool.

"As soon as you're cool, three of you go to the water and wash off," Dick ordered. "The other three of us will stay here until you get back."

That was the order of the day now. At least two, and usually three of Dick & Co. always remained near camp. If Mosher planned to come again he would find a "committee" waiting to receive him.

There were more supplies, too, to guard now than there had been. On the morning after Dick's encounter, a farmer had driven into camp. His wagon had been well laden with all manner of canned food supplies, even to tins of French mushrooms. These had come from Alonzo Hibbert, with a note of thanks for the entertainment of himself and friends.

"These provisions are mighty welcome," Prescott had remarked at the time, "but I'm not sure but that I would rather have Hibbert himself here—I've so much to tell him."

"He'll come, in time, when he gets your letter at the Eagle House," Reade had answered, for Dick had told all his chums his suspicions regarding young Mosher.

"What are we to do this afternoon?" asked Dave, seating himself beside Prescott as three of the chums started for the swimming pool.

"Gymnastics," Dick replied. "Especially bar work. And some boxing, of course."

"You ought to be excused from boxing for the present," grinned Darry. "You look as though you had had enough for a while."

For Dick's left cheek was still decorated with a bruise that young Mosher had planted there. The boxing of Dick & Co., this summer, was real work. It was done with bare knuckles, though, of course, without anger or the desire to do injury. Boxing with bare knuckles was Prescott's own idea for hardening himself and his chums for the rough work of the gridiron.

"I'll take my share of the boxing," Dick retorted. "Having a sore spot on my face will make me all the more careful in my guard."

"Queer we don't hear from Hibbert," mused Greg Holmes.

"Not at all," Dave contended. "Hibbert simply isn't back at the Eagle House yet, and perhaps the hotel people have had no orders about forwarding his mail It may be a fortnight before we hear from him."

"Thanks to the thoughtfulness of Hibbert we can remain in camp a good deal more than a fortnight longer," observed Prescott, glancing over the greatly increased food supply. "Perhaps it was all right for Hibbert to repay our courtesy the other day, but he has sent us something like twenty or thirty times as much food as his party ate."

"I guess Hibbert has more money than he knows what to do with," mused Greg aloud.

"Even if he has," Prescott smiled seriously, "there is no reason why he should feel called upon to keep us in food. I'd give four fifths of that food to know where to reach Hibbert, or any of that party, in a hurry. Jupiter!"

"What's up?" asked Dave, eyeing his chum in astonishment, for Dick had suddenly leaped to his feet, and was now dancing about like an Indian.

"Say, but we must have fried eggs in the place of brains!" cried young Prescott reproachfully.

"What calls forth that severe remark?" demanded Darry.

"Why, we know well enough where to get hold of Hibbert's party," Dick went on.

"Do we?" asked Greg.

"Certainly," cried Dick triumphantly. "Just send a note to Mr. Colquitt in care of Blinders' Detective Agency. I'm going to write the note now!"

Dick was half-way to the tent when Darry called after him:

"By the way, in what city is the Blinders' agency located?"

Dick halted short, looking blank.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Do you fellows?"

None of them did. Then they waited until the others came in from the pool. But none of them knew what city had the honor to shelter the Blinders' agency.

"I'll write the note, anyway," Dick insisted. "If I can't do better, I'll put the address as simply the United States, with a request on the envelope for the post-office people to find the right city and deliver the letter."

"Go ahead with the letter," urged Tom. "After dinner I'll walk over to Five Corners and mail the letter. Incidentally, I'll make inquiries over there and see whether anyone knows the city in which the Blinders' crowd has its headquarters."

So Dick wrote the letter, while others were preparing the noon meal. At one o'clock in the afternoon Tom started, on his round-trip tramp of twenty-two miles.

"A trip like that will take the place of training for one half day," Reade explained.

Hazelton offered to go with him, but Tom declined on the ground that he could get over ground faster without Harry.

It was an hour after dark when Reade returned that night, hot, tired, dusty and hungry. But he had found the correct address of the agency and the letter had started on its journey.

"Your supper is all ready," Dick announced.

"And I'm ready to meet any supper more than half way," Reade retorted. "Just a minute, until I wash up."

The other five boys sat and chatted by the table while Tom ate.

"Dan, won't you throw a lot more wood on the fire?" asked Dick, as the meal came to a close. "We ought to have the camp better lighted than this."

Greg sprang to help Dalzell. Soon the flames leaped up, throwing their ruddy, cheerful glow over the camp and making dancing shadows beyond under the trees.

While they were still chatting over the day's doings, steps were heard, followed by the arrival in camp of two rough-looking, stern-faced men. Dave Darrin sprang to pick up a club.

"You boys haven't been doing anything wrong, have you?" questioned one of the men, with a trace of a smile.

"Of course not," Dick indignantly replied.

"Then you needn't be afraid of us, though I admit that we do look rough," answered the same man, displaying a badge. "We're officers of the law."

"What can we do for you, sir?" Prescott inquired more respectfully.

"Do you boys know anything about Tag Mosher?" demanded the same speaker.

"Son of Bill Mosher?" Dick counter-queried.

"The same. Know anything about him?"

"Nothing, except that he bothered us a good deal when we were first camped here," Prescott replied.

"Do you know him by sight, then?"

"We all do."

"When was Tag here last?" pressed the officer.

"About three days ago," Dick answered. "He stole quite a bit of our food supply."

"That's an old trick of that young tough," rejoined the deputy sheriff. "That's how the boy got the nickname of 'tag.' He won't work, and lives on other people's work. Anything that he can say 'tag' to he thinks belongs to him."

"Then, in other words, sir," asked Dave Darrin, "Tag Mosher is just a plain thief?"

"A good deal that way," replied the deputy. "But with this difference: Up to date Tag never stole anything except what he needed at the moment for his own comfort. He never robbed people to enrich himself, but just to save himself the trouble of working. Now, however, we've a more serious charge against him."

"What?" asked Dick,

"I don't know whether the courts will call it felonious assault," replied the deputy. "But Tag stole two chickens out of the chicken coop of Henry Leigh, a new farmer in these parts. Leigh trailed Tag to the woods and found him cooking the chickens. Leigh tried to grab Tag, but Tag caught up a big stone and just slammed it against Leigh's head. Leigh is now in bed at home, with a fractured skull, and likely to die. He described Tag to us, and we're after him. The county has put a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars on Tag's head. After we've come up with him I guess it will be many a year before Tag Mosher will have a chance to do any more stealing or fighting. But if you haven't seen him here in three days we may as well be moving on. Thank you. Of course, if you see Tag, you won't tell him anything about our being here?"

"Certainly not, sir," Dick answered. "By the way, do you want any help?"

"Meaning some of you boys?" asked the deputy.

"Some of us will help you, if we can," Dick assured him.

"How many?"

"We ought to leave half our number to guard the camp, for Tag may show up here and wreck things. Three of us can go with you."

"You may run into some ugly fighting, if you go with us," warned the deputy. "Tag Mosher is no coward!"

"We're not afraid of fighting, when we're in the right," Prescott replied promptly.

"Besides, we've got a grudge of our own against Tag Mosher, anyway," Dave said.

"Not a grudge, I hope," Dick rebuked his chum. "But we'll stand by to help the law, if we get a chance."

"I reckon maybe we could use three of you," meditated the deputy aloud. "Boys can beat up woods as well as men. But we may not be able to get you back here before to-morrow noon.

"That will be all right," Dick assured him. "Dave and Greg, you'll join me in going with the officers, won't you?"

Darry and Holmes both assented eagerly.

"If you've any extra grub, then, put it up and come along," urged the deputy. "There's room for five in the automobile we're using."

"How did you men know that we were here?" Reade inquired, while Dick and Greg made haste to get food together for the trip.

"Saw your campfire," replied the deputy laconically. "We didn't believe Tag would build such a large fire, but we took a chance and looked in. If you haven't anything else to do, young Long-legs, you might pick out three stout clubs for your friends."

Laughing good-naturedly at the nickname, Tom bestirred himself. Within three minutes all was ready.

Dick, Dave and Greg stepped away after the officers. Not far away was the road, where the automobile stood with the engine running.

"Does Tag know how to run a car?" Prescott inquired.

"Don't know," replied the deputy.

"If he does, and had happened to be about, he could have taken your car in good shape," smiled Dick.

"True," nodded the officer, "but there were only two of us, and nabbing Tag Mosher is two men's work."

"I ought to know that," laughed Dick. "He gave me a stiff enough beating."

"Here is where you can even the score," laughed Dave grimly.

"I don't want to even any score," replied Prescott gravely. "I'm sorry for the fellow, especially when he was so close to a chance to turn about and make something of himself."

"Do you mean to say that you don't hold even a bit of a grudge for that severe beating you got?" demanded Darry wonderingly.

"Of course I don't," Dick retorted. "When two fellows fight one of them must receive a beating—that's the sporting chance. All my feelings for Tag are of sympathy."

"Not enough so you'd let him get away, if you met him?" put in the deputy quickly.

"Of course, not, sir," Dick answered quickly flushing. "That would be as much as to say that I'm a bad citizen. If I find Tag I'll do my best to hold him until help comes. You may be sure of that."

"Then get into the car," ordered the deputy briefly. "The back part of the car is for you youngsters. That reminds me. We don't know each other's names. Mine's Simmons."

The other deputy's name proved to be Valden. The boys quickly introduced themselves.

Away went the car, over the rough roads. To avoid sending warning too far ahead the lights were turned low. On account of the condition of this rough forest road the speed was slow.

"If Tag hasn't been to your camp within three nights," said Mr. Simmons, leaning back while Mr. Valden ran the car, "then it's because he isn't in this neighborhood. So we'll travel on a few miles before we stop to do any real searching."

"I don't understand how you can expect to find anyone out here in the night time," Dick observed.

"I've some plans in my mind," was all the explanation Simmons offered.

When the road became a little better, Valden put on a bit more speed.

"Better slow down," advised Simmons presently. "There's a bridge ahead that isn't any, too strong."

That bridge was closer than the deputy thought. Just then the automobile top brushed heavily against foliage in making a wooded turn in the road.

"There's the bridge!" yelled Simmons almost excitedly. "Slow down—stop!"

Valden tried to obey, but the bridge was altogether too close for stopping in time. Out over the planks ran the car.

R-r-rip! Crash!

Some of the boards were already missing from the rude bridge. Others gave way almost like paper. Down through the structure fell the car, then landed with a splash, overturning to the accompaniment of cries of fright and of pain from its occupants.

XIII. IN A FIX!

As the water in the creek was barely three feet deep, Officer Valden sprang from the car, holding his right hand, which had been caught in the brake mechanism.

Deputy Simmons appeared to be uninjured.

Greg Holmes went under water, his head striking a stone violently enough to bring a splash of blood to his forehead.

Dave Darrin's head struck against the side of the car, bringing a cry of pain from him.

Yet, though he was dizzy from the concussion, Darry displayed the coolest head of any of them in the first few moments.

"Where's Dick?" he called, when he saw the others accounted for. Then Dave wrenched off one of the lamps, holding it to aid his vision.

"There he is!" shouted Darrin, as his foot touched something. "His head is under water. Up with him, quickly!"

Dave brought the rays of the lantern to bear more directly, while Simmons sprang to the rescue. Greg, too, joined in.

"He's pinned down by the car!" gasped Deputy Simmons after finding Prescott's submerged body and giving it a hard tug. "Valden, help me lift the car on this side! You two boys pull your friend out when we lift the car. Now!"

Though Deputy Valden was able to employ only his left hand, he used it with all his strength.

"Here he comes," panted Dave, tugging at Dick's body with all his might. "Gracious! I hope he isn't drowned!"

Greg, too, exerted all his strength. Though it seemed ages to the anxious ones it was really but the work of a few seconds.

As Dick's head emerged above the surface of the water he gave a quick gasp. Then another.

"Oh, the air seems good," he moaned. "I tried to keep from opening my mouth or breathing, but it nearly burst my lungs!"

"Are you all right now?" asked Darry, holding his chum up.

"If you'll help me to the bank I shall be, I think," answered Prescott weakly.

"Why, what——" began Dave anxiously.

"I was badly bruised by being pinned under the car," Dick admitted, in a still weaker voice.

"No bones broken, eh?" broke in Greg Holmes.

"I—I think not," Dick answered.

"Don't keep him talking," ordered Dave sternly. "Put in your strength and help me lift good old Dick up into the road."

"I guess I can do that job better," interposed Simmons, who had let go of the car. "Let me have the boy."

Dick was borne up to the road in the deputy's strong arms.

"Can you stand?" asked Simmons.

"Put me on my feet, sir, and let me see," begged Dick.

He took a few steps, wincing, his face white.

"Dick, old fellow," faltered Dave, "I'm afraid you've broken a leg."

"No; or I couldn't stand on my legs and walk," Prescott replied. "It hurts up here, where the side of the car rested."

He placed one hand on his right hip.

"Then your hip is broken," groaned Darry.

"I don't believe that, either," argued Dick. "If my hip were broken I don't believe I could move my leg or step."

He took two or three steps, wincing painfully, to show what he could do.

"Nothing but a hip bruise, or I'm guessing wrong," smiled the white-faced sufferer.

"In any case, you're meat for a doctor," put in Deputy Simmons, with rough sympathy.

"All right," replied Dick. "I'll walk to the doctor's office. How many miles is it?"

"About fourteen," replied Simmons. "I'll bring the doctor to you. It's only about six miles to Ross' farm. I'll borrow his car. Then I can make good time getting the doctor and bringing him here. But you'd better sit down before I start."

"Aren't you going to do anything with the car in the creek?" inquired Prescott.

"What can we do?" demanded the deputy laconically. "There isn't muscle enough in this crowd to hoist the car up the bank. Anyway, her engine is damaged beyond a doubt. No, no, Prescott, you sit down, or lie down, and the rest of you had better wait here until I bring help. I can be back in three hours at the latest. Darrin, will you place one of the lamps at either end of where the bridge was? That may save some farmer from driving in on top of the car."

Dave complied willingly enough. Then Simmons turned to Prescott.

"Now, you sit down, young man," ordered the deputy.

"I'd rather not," Dick replied. "I haven't anything worse than a bruise. If I keep too quiet the injury will stiffen all the more. I must move my hip a bit, or I may be in for a worse time."

"That may be true," nodded the deputy thoughtfully. "Well, be good, all of you. I'll be back again, as soon as possible."

With that he strode down into the creek, wading through and coming out at the farther side. Then he was lost among the shadows.

Though it hurt to keep on his feet, Dick, after some minutes, found that he could move about a little more freely, despite the pain.

"That shows there are no bones broken," he assured his distressed chums.

"Does it?" asked Darrin. "Hang it, I wish I knew more about injuries of this sort. Then I might be able to help you."

"Why, I may be all right, and able to sprint in another half hour," smiled Dick.

"Yes, you will!" jeered Greg. "Dick, you won't run for a few days to come, anyway."

"A nice lot we are, to set out to aid the law's officers," remarked Dave disgustedly. "Dick can take only a half a step per minute. Mr. Valden can use only one hand. Greg's head looks gory. The lot of us couldn't scare a baby now!"

"I can still say, boo!" Prescott laughed.

"Is it wise to try to do so much walking?" questioned Darry, as Greg went back to the creek to wash the blood from the shallow cut on his forehead.

"Yes; for I don't want to grow stiff until I'm where I can take care of myself," Dick answered, taking a few more steps. "No; don't help me. I want to move alone, and I'm strong enough for that."

So Dave threw himself on the grass to rest until he bethought himself that, wet as they all were, it might be a good idea to build a fire for drying purposes.

He busied himself in that way, while Dick started slowly, very painfully, down the road. Only a step at a time could he go. Greg, returning, ran after him, but Prescott sent him back, so Holmes stretched himself on the ground near the fire.

At times Dick found he could move about very easily. Then the hip would stiffen and he would be obliged to lean against a tree for a few moments.

For ten minutes or longer he moved thus down the road.

"I'd better be getting back soon, I guess," he mused, "or I may find it too much of a job."

Looking back, as he turned, he could just make out the glow of the fire, very dim, indeed, from where he stood.

"I've got a beacon," smiled Dick, as he rested against a tree trunk just off the road. He was about to take a step when a figure glided stealthily by.

"By all that's astonishing, it's Tag Mosher!" Prescott gasped. He clutched at the tree trunk again, watching, for Tag had halted and appeared to be peering hard through the foliage at the fire some distance away.

"I wouldn't want him to find me, now!" thought Dick, a cold chill running over him at the thought of Tag's desperate savagery.

But at that moment Prescott accidentally made a sound, which, slight though it was, caught young Mosher's ear.

In a twinkling Tag wheeled about, listening, peering. Then, straight toward Prescott he came.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" demanded young Mosher harshly.

"Yes," Prescott admitted, speaking as steadily as he could, though his heart sank for the moment. He knew that Tag would have time to give him a beating that would be doubly severe in his present condition of weakness and pain. That beating could be given in a few swift seconds, and the help within reach of Dick's voice could not arrive until young Mosher had had time to slip away among the trees of the forest that he knew so well. "What do you want with me?" demanded Tag, bringing his leering face closer to Prescott's.

XIV. THRASHING AN AMBULANCE CASE!

"I want you to stand right where you are until some of my friends come," Dick made answer.

Then he braced himself for the violent assault that, he felt, was sure to come. To his intense astonishment, however, Tag heaved a sigh of dejection, then muttered:

"I may as well do it. You owe me a grudge, anyway, and you've got the upper hand this time."

What on earth could it mean? For a brief instant Dick almost believed that the exciting incidents of the night had been but parts of a dream. But he raised his voice to shout:

"Dave! Oh, Dave! Come here! You, too, Greg."

"Coming," came the call, in Darry's voice. The sound of running feet sounded on the road.

Tag Mosher glanced uneasily about, as if meditating flight. Then his keen eyes scrutinized Prescott's face.

"What's up?" demanded Dave, as, even in the darkness he caught sight of another figure.

"Darry," smiled Dick, "I wish to present my friend, Mr. Tag Mosher."

"What?" gasped Darrin. "This Tag Mosher. By Jove, it is, it? How on earth did you make him wait for us?"

Then, all in a flying heap Dave projected himself against young Mosher, clinching with him and bearing him down to the ground. In order to make doubly sure Greg joined in the assault. But Tag, though he struggled, did not put up much of a fight.

"Quit!" he ordered sullenly. "I'm all in. Can't you fellows see that? But if I hadn't been sick I'd either have gotten away, or would have given you fellows a fight that you'd never forget!"

Quick-witted Dave was not long in discovering that Tag really was weak, as though from a recent illness.

"Say," demanded Darry, "have we been exerting ourselves to thrash an ambulance case?" His voice rang with self disgust.

"If I'd been a well one," growled Tag, "you never would have put me down, or held me. But I'm like a kitten to-night—-strength all gone!"

"What's going on here?" asked Deputy Valden, putting in a more leisurely appearance.

"Something right in your line," Dick answered. "Dave and Greg are holding down Tag Mosher."

"You're not fooling, are you?" demanded the deputy. "You're not making any mistake, either?"

"We know Tag Mosher when we see him," Darry retorted. "We've good enough reason for knowing him."

With his uninjured left hand Deputy Valden reached for his pair of handcuffs, passing them to Dave.

"Here you are, Darrin," said the officer. "You know how to put these things on, don't you?"

"I can figure the job out, sir," Dave made reply.

Tag submitted, wearily, to having the steel bracelets snapped over his wrists. Then he heaved a sigh that had something of a sob in it.

"I let you put these on, but I wish you'd take them off again," he said, addressing Valden. "I know I'm bad, and I know I'm tough, but I never had these things on my hands before. Take 'em off, won't you? Please!"

Such submission was tame, indeed. Deputy Valden, who had never seen young Mosher before glanced sharply at young Prescott.

"This fellow doesn't seem much like the hardened criminal I've been told about," remarked the officer.

"Did Prescott tell you I was tough?" demanded the prisoner. "He ought to know! He had a touch of my style when I was feeling better than I feel to-night. I suppose I've been nabbed for helping myself to a sandwich or two from their camp."

"Do you demand to know why you're under arrest?" inquired Deputy Valden.

Tag nodded.

"Well, then," continued the deputy, "you're wanted for cracking the skull of a farmer named Leigh. There's a doubt if Leigh will live and you may be charged with killing him."

"I? Killed a farmer?" demanded Tag, in what appeared to be very genuine amazement.

"Leigh says you're the chap that did it," Valden answered.

"I never heard of a man of any such name," argued Tag. "Still, if he says I did it, oh, well, he ought to know, and I suppose it will be all right."

"It'll have to be all right—whatever the courts may do to you, Mosher," Deputy Valden rejoined curtly. "Darrin, will you help the prisoner to his feet and lead him back to where the bridge was? Simmons will expect to find us there when he gets back."

So Darry and Greg Holmes assisted young Mosher to his feet. Dave took hold of Tag's arm, though the latter did not resist, but walked along like one in a dream.

"Want any help, Dick?" asked Greg.

"I believe I wouldn't object to having a friendly arm to lean on," Prescott replied. "I've been standing here so long that my hip is stiff again."

As the leader of Dick & Co. moved down the road, Tag turned in astonishment.

"What's the matter?" Tag asked, at last.

"We were in an automobile accident, and I was slightly injured," Dick confessed.

"And you can hardly walk?"

"I can walk only with effort and considerable pain," said Dick.

Tag Mosher whistled softly.

"My luck is leaving me," declared Mosher ruefully. "Prescott, when I saw you and looked you over I didn't see that you are a cripple. I thought you were in as good shape as ever. As for me, I can't do much to-night, I'm so weak. I thought that, if I tried to fight, you'd handle me easily enough. If I ran, I knew I couldn't run far, and you'd jump on my back and bear me to the ground. So I thought it easier to let you have your own way with me. Whee! I didn't do a thing but surrender to a cripple that ought to be on crutches! My luck is gone!"

This last was said with an air of great dejection, as though Tag never looked to have any further pleasure in life. Presently he muttered, half aloud:

"And now they say that I've committed a murder! They'll prove it on me, too. Tag Mosher, you're done for."

"Anyway, you're in a rather bad fix, young man," confirmed Deputy Valden. "Even with the best luck you'll be locked up for some years to come."

"That will kill me!" muttered Tag sullenly. "I can't live anywhere outside of the big forest. In jail—why, I'd die of lack of fresh air! My father, old Bill Mosher, can get along in jail all right—he's used to it. But me? The first two weeks behind bars will kill me!"

"You should have thought of that before you cracked Leigh's skull," retorted Deputy Valden.

"I tell you that I didn't do it, and that I never before heard of a man of that name!" cried Tag Mosher fiercely.

"Leigh says you did," the deputy again informed the prisoner.

"Oh, well, then, we'll say that I did," agreed Tag moodily. "I'm as good as finished, if the charge has been made. No one around here would think of believing anything that Tag Mosher might say."

Somehow, despite the unsavory reputation of the prisoner, Dick Prescott found himself feeling more than ordinary sympathy for this dejected prisoner. Could it be possible that Tag really was innocent of this last and most serious charge against him? It didn't seem likely that the officers had gone after the wrong young man.

"Tag is bad, and yet there's also good in him that is very close to the surface," Prescott told himself. "It seems really too bad to think of this young fellow being locked up, away from the sunshine and the fresh air of the woods. And yet, if he makes a sport of manslaughter, of course he'll have to be put away where he can't do any harm. Oh, dear! I wonder why I feel so much sympathy for a fellow of this kind?"

They were at the broken bridge, now, with the wreck of the automobile lying in the creek.

"Mosher," said the deputy sternly, "Officer Simmons suspects that you believed we'd be after you, and that you tore up some of the planks from this crazy old bridge, so that our car would be wrecked. Did you do that?"

"Oh, I suppose I must have," replied Tag, with the air of one who feels it fruitless to deny what peace officers were prepared to charge against one of his bad reputation.

"Then you admit damaging the bridge?" asked Valden.

"I admit nothing of the kind," Tag retorted.

"Who ripped the boards up?"

"I don't know."

"We'll prove it against you," declared Valden positively.

"Oh, I s'pose you will," grumbled Tag. "It's easy to prove anything against old Bill Mosher's son. My dad's where he can't help me."

"Are you going to play the baby act?" asked the deputy, half-sneeringly.

"Wait until I've had a week of good eating and sound sleeping, and then see if you can find anything babyish about me," snapped the prisoner.

Dick Prescott watched the pair, feeling a rising resentment against the deputy. Yet Valden was only resorting to tricks as old as the police themselves—the taunting of a prisoner into talking too much and thereby betraying his guilt.

"Pardon me, Tag," Dick now interposed, "but it's a principle of law that a prisoner doesn't have to talk unless he wants to. I don't believe, if I were you, I'd say anything just now."

"I'm not going to say anything more," Tag retorted moodily, yet with a flash of somewhat sullen gratitude to Prescott.

"Humph! You'd better talk, and get all you know out of your system," advised Deputy Valden contemptuously. "And the first thing you'd better own up to is pulling the missing planks up from this crazy old bridge."

Tag snorted, yet had no word to say. Instead, as best he could with his hands in the steel bracelets, he helped himself to a seat on the ground his back against a tree. Either he was extremely weary, or he was pretending cleverly.

"Come! I guess you can talk better standing up," admonished Deputy Valden, seizing Tag by the coat collar and dragging him to his feet. Mosher accepted the implied order in sullen silence.

"Is it necessary, Mr. Valden, to torment the prisoner?" asked Dick quietly.

"The way I handle a prisoner is my business," replied Valden rather crisply.

"You'd rather sit down, wouldn't you, Tag?" Dick inquired. Young Mosher answered only with a nod.

"It makes you feel weaker to stand, doesn't it?" Prescott continued.

Another nod.

"Mr. Valden," Dick pressed, "I hope you won't think me too forward, but I believe this prisoner, and I am going to urge you to let him find comfort by sitting down and resting."

"What have you got to say about it?" demanded Mr. Valden, so brusquely that Dick flushed.

"I'm not in a position of authority, and I admit it," Prescott replied. "But I think I have a right to object when I see a human being tormented needlessly, haven't I?"

"You have no right to interfere in any way with an officer," rejoined Valden less brusquely.

"Nor do I intend trying to interfere with a peace officer in anything proper that he does," Dick went on quietly, though with spirit. "It seems that Tag Mosher has a right to rest himself by sitting down. If he tries again to sit down, and if you stop him from so doing, then Tag, if he wishes, may have me summoned to court to tell how he was tormented. I'll be willing to tell just whatever I may see here."

Valden snorted, almost inaudibly, then turned away. Tag slid down to the ground again, resting against the tree trunk, and preserving absolute silence.

The time passed slowly, but at last Deputy Simmons came in a car, followed by another car which contained a young man whom he introduced as Dr. Cutting.

"I'll take you right back to camp," announced Dr. Cutting, after Simmons had looked over his prisoner and then introduced the physician to Prescott. "I can examine you better when I have you at your summer home and handy to your bed. Can you get into the car?"

"I can use my arms to draw myself up," Dick answered.

"Then let me see how well you can do it," urged the young physician, stepping back to watch Prescott, yet ready to assist him if necessary.

Dick got himself into the tonneau of the car, after some painful effort.

"Doc, you'll take the boys back to their camp, won't you?" called Simmons.

"Certainly."

"And remember, Prescott," called Simmons, "you've been aiding the county to-night, and the county will pay Doctor Cutting's bill."

Valden and Simmons exchanged some words in an undertone, after which the latter deputy came over to where Prescott sat.

"Valden tells me you have been interfering between him and Tag Mosher," began the officer. "How was it?"

Dick gave a quick, truthful account of his interference.

"You did right, Prescott," agreed Simmons, gripping the boy's hand. "Remember that any citizen has a right to interfere when he sees a prisoner being abused. Valden is a good fellow at bottom, and he's a brave fighter in time of real trouble. But he's just like a lot of other policemen who feel that they have to get all the evidence in a case. All a peace officer has to do is to find a criminal and make the arrest. It's the district attorney's business to get the evidence, but there are a good many peace officers to whom you can't teach that. Prescott, the next time you see a prisoner being abused you are to do the same as you did this time. I hope your hip will soon be all right again. I'll try to look in on you in a day or two at your camp. Thank you for what you did for law and order to-night. Good night!"

XV. THE INTERRUPTION OF A TRAINING BOUT

"Hazelton, the trouble with you is that you tackle a dummy just the way you'd catch a sack of potatoes that was being thrown out of a burning house!" laughed Dick.

"I don't see any other way to tackle a dummy," grunted Harry, looking puzzled.

"Why, you are supposed to tackle the dummy just as you'd tackle a running football player coming toward you," Prescott rejoined. "Greg, stand off there about fifty yards. At the word, run straight toward Harry. Hazelton, you grab hold of Holmes and don't let him get by you. Just hang on, and try to put him on the ground at that. All ready, Greg! Run. Tackle him, Harry!"

This time Hazelton entered into the play with great zest. Just in the nick of time he leaped at Greg, tackled him and bore him to the ground.

"That's the way!" cheered Dick. "Now, you look alive, Hazelton."

"That was because I had something to tackle that was alive," Harry retorted. "It's much easier to tackle a living fellow than a stuffed dummy. What's the good of using the dummy, anyway, when we have plenty of live fellows around here?"

"Oh, the dummy has its uses," Dick replied wisely. "A lot of faults can be better observed with a dummy for a background than is the case when you tackle a live one. The dummy is better for showing up the defects in your work. Now, Reade, you make a few swift assaults on the dummy."

Tom did his work so cleverly as to call forth admiration from all the onlookers.

A stout pole had been lashed across the space between two trees, being made secure in the forks of the lower limbs of the trees. The dummy itself had been made of old sail canvas and excelsior. It was not a very impressive-looking object, but it made a good substitute for the football dummies manufactured by sporting goods houses.

It was a little more than a week since the night when Tag Mosher had been captured. Dick's hip which had been pronounced by Doctor Cutting as only bruised and strained, had now mended so far that nothing wrong could be observed in his gait. In fact, Prescott had all but ceased to remember the accident.

For the others, the days had been full of football training, with long tramps and fishing and berrying jaunts thrown in for amusement. Now that Tag Mosher was safely locked up in the county jail there had been no more raids on the food supplies of the camp. It was now necessary, therefore, to leave but one boy at a time in the camp, and Dick, while his hip was mending, had usually been that one.

Every member of Dick & Co. was brown as a berry. Muscles, too, were beginning to stand out with a firmness that had never been observed at home in the winter time. Enough more of this camping and hard work and training, and Dick & Co. were likely to return to Gridley as six condensed young giants. Nothing puts the athlete in shape as quickly as does camping, combined with training, in the summer time.

This morning the work had begun with practice kicks, passing from that to the work of tackling the dummy. Two hours of hard work had now been put in, and all were comfortably tired.

"Let's keep quiet and cool off," urged Dick at last. "Then for the swimming pool and clean clothes."

"I wonder if Tag has died yet, as he expected to, now that he's out of the forest and locked up in a jail?" mused Tom Reade aloud.

"He must be in fearfully depressed spirits," muttered Dick sympathetically.

Dave Darrin regarded his chum curiously.

"Dick, you seem to have a positive sympathy for that fellow."

"I have," Prescott avowed promptly.

"You even seem to like him," pressed Darry.

"I do like him," Dick assented. "Darry, I believe that a lot of good might be found in Tag Mosher if he could have the same chance that most other fellows have. Usually, when a fellow says he has had no chance in life, the fact really is that he has been too lazy to take his chance. But I don't believe that Tag ever had a real, sure-enough chance. He has spent his days with a drunkard and a vagabond."

"Yet Tag has been to school," objected Tom Reade. "Tag talks like a fellow who has had a very fair amount of schooling. Schools teach something more than mere book lessons. They give a fellow some of the first principles of truth and honor. Despite his schooling, however, Tag prefers to steal as a means of supplying all his needs. And now, at last, he is in jail, charged, perhaps, with killing a fellow being."

"I wonder if Mr. Leigh is dead yet?" mused Dick. "I like being off here in the deep forest like this, but there's one drawback. We don't hear much news."

"What news do you want?" asked a familiar voice behind him. Soft-footed Deputy Simmons stalked into the circle.

"We were just wondering, Mr. Simmons," spoke Prescott, rising, "if Mr. Leigh is dead yet?"

"Not yet," replied the peace officer, "but the doctors say that he is likely to die any day now."

"Then will Tag be charged with manslaughter—or murder?"

"He may be charged with murder, if we can catch him," replied the deputy.

"If you can ca——Why, what's up?" asked Dick eagerly.

"Tag broke out of jail last night," replied the officer.

"He's—at large?"

"That's what he is," nodded Simmons. "Tag was looked upon as a kid, and wasn't watched as carefully as he should have been. So he got out. Not only that, but he visited the warden's office, late at night. So, when he left, he took with him a sawed-off shotgun—one of the wickedest weapons ever invented—and a revolver and plenty of ammunition. That's what I'm doing in the woods now. I came to see if you had seen Tag to-day, but your asking for news of him shows me that you haven't."

"Is Mr. Valden with you?" asked Dick.

"Yes; he's over at the road, in the car. He wouldn't come to camp. I guess the truth is"—Simmons' eyes twinkled—that Valden is ashamed to see you after the rebuke you gave him the other night, Prescott. After we got young Mosher to the jail and locked up, I gave Valden a talking-to, and told him I'd report him to the sheriff if I ever heard of his abusing a prisoner again."

"So Tag escaped, with some field artillery, and you officers are out after him?" Tom asked.

"Yes; and three other pairs of deputies are out also," nodded Mr. Simmons.

"Did you get that car out of the creek?" asked Darry. "We never heard."

"That car was a complete wreck," replied the officer. "We got it out of the creek, but left it in the woods nearby. The bridge has been rebuilt, and is stronger than before. How's your hip, Prescott?"

"As well as ever, thank you," replied Dick.

"I'm glad to know that, boy. Meant to drop in on you before. I must hurry along now. Of course, if Tag shows up about your camp, you won't tell him that you've seen me."

"Certainly not, sir," nodded Dick. "We'll also try to get word to you, if we see him. Where is your home?"

"Five Corners is my address," replied the deputy. "So long, boys! Glad to have seen you again."

The cat-footed deputy was soon lost to sight among the trees.

Dave was the first to speak, and that was some moments later.

"Dick, you're foolish to feel any liking for Tag Mosher. He's bad all the way through. As it was he was locked up on a charge of possible manslaughter, and now he has escaped, taking with him firearms and ammunition enough to rid the county of peace and police officers. He'll do it, too, if he's cornered. Now, where's the good in that kind of a pest?"

"I don't know how to answer you," sighed Dick. "Perhaps I am foolish, but I'm not yet prepared to admit it. Instead, I still contend that I feel a sneaking liking for poor Tag."

"'Poor Tag,' indeed!" mimicked Tom Reade. "Poor wives and kids of the deputy sheriffs whom Tag may shoot down in their tracks before he's cornered at last! Dick, young Mosher is a budding outlaw and a bad egg all around."

"No decent citizen should feel any sort of sympathy for him," affirmed Harry Hazelton.

"Let Dick alone," objected Greg Holmes. "Dick generally knows what he's about, even in regard to his emotions and sympathies."

"What do you say, Danny?" asked Dave.

"May the sheriff deliver me from Tag Mosher!" replied Danny Grin.

"You're a prejudiced lot," smiled Dick, as he rose from his camp stool. "Who'll watch camp this time while the rest of us go to swimming pool?"

"I will," Darry volunteered.

Carrying clean underclothing, soap and towels from the tent, the other five started through the woods to a new swimming pool that had been discovered lately.

When they returned Dave went away alone for his bath. Tom Reade, as the cook for the day, lifted the lid of the soup pot to examine the contents.

"I wish one of you fellows would go out into the woods and bring in some of that flowering savory herb for the soup," called Tom.

"I know the kind you mean," nodded Prescott. "I'll go and get it."

He strolled off in the opposite direction from the pool. Yet, truth to tell, his mind was very little on the herb he was seeking. His mind dwelt almost completely on the thought of Tag Mosher, once more at large, and most likely roaming about somewhere in this vast expanse of woods.

"I don't believe it's so much badness in Tag, as it is that he's just a plain, simple savage, with the instincts and the passions of the savage," Dick reflected. "I wonder if Tag ever did really have a chance to be decent? Poor fellow! If he must be caught and returned to jail, and by and by pay the penalty of his attack upon Farmer Leigh, then I don't believe he ever will have a real chance to try to be decent again. I wonder if I'm wrong and the other fellows are right? Perhaps Tag would scorn a chance to be an all-around decent fellow. I wonder. I wonder!"

His musings led Prescott rather far afield. At last he halted, looking about him in some bewilderment.

"Humph! That's queer!" he muttered. "Now, I wonder if I can really remember what it was I came out here for?"

For a few moments the bewilderment continued.

"Oh, yes! Now, I know," he laughed. "I am after some of that savory herb for the soup."

It was necessary to retrace his steps considerably, and to go in a somewhat different direction. At last he came upon a patch of the herb.

"This stuff has been burned by the sun," he said to himself, turning away from the first specimens of the herb. "Over there in the shade it will be fresher and greener."

Dick took a few rapid steps, halting before a fringe of bushes. Bending over, he extended a hand to pick some of the herbs.

Just then he heard a slight sound, like the catching of someone's breath. Starting, Prescott raised his head just a trifle, to find himself looking straight into the eyes of Tag Mosher, as that youth lay flat on the ground. Two muzzles of a shotgun stared Dick in the face, while the fingers of the fugitive rested on the triggers of the gun.

"If you're looking for me," grimaced Tag, "you've found me! I'm right here, and this is going to be my dizzy day!"

XVI. TEN MINUTES OF REAL DARING

Still keeping his eyes turned on the fugitive, Dick took three quick, backward steps.

"Halt!" ordered Tag.

"I was going to stop, anyway," smiled Dick. "Now, put your hands up!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm boss here!" remarked Tag.

"I didn't know that you were boss of anything," Dick replied, still smiling.

"I'm telling you," declared Mosher. "Want me to make good?"

"I wish you'd make something of yourself, instead," rejoined Prescott in a voice of intense earnestness.

"Get your hands up!" ordered Tag, with a decided increase in emphasis.

"That's a silly demand on your part," Dick retorted calmly. "Why should you want my hands up? I'm not armed, and am in no position to attack you. Are you such a coward, Mosher, that you're afraid of an unarmed fellow that you could thrash even if you were unarmed? I can't bring myself to believe that of you.

"You've a mighty fine opinion of me, haven't you?" jeered Tag.

"I'd like to have a fine opinion of you," Prescott declared.

"Oh! And what must I do to win that fine opinion?" demanded Tag mockingly.

"If you want to know, I'll tell you," Dick continued. "Just put down that gun and step away from it."

"And then you'll pounce on it and hold me up!" jeered Tag. "Fine!"

"You get away from your weapon," Prescott urged, "and I'll give you my word of honor not to touch it without your leave."

"Your word of honor?" asked Tag, driven to wonder despite himself. "What good would your word of honor be?"

"It would be as good as anything I'm capable of," Prescott responded. "Tag, didn't you ever have any respect for a man's word of honor? Didn't you ever respect your own?"

"I got that game played on me at school, once," leered Mosher. "As soon as I swallowed the bait the other fellow kicked me in the shins and ran off and left me there. Now, Prescott, I don't want any more nonsense. Put up your hands!"

"I've already declined," Dick smiled calmly. "To that refusal I'll add my thanks."

"Put up your hands, or I'll keep the gun turned on you and pull a trigger or two."

"Then the gun isn't loaded," chuckled Dick.

"Oh, isn't it?"

"No, for you're not bad enough, Tag, to shoot down an unarmed person who isn't your enemy."

"You'll tell the officers you saw me here, won't you?"

"Certainly."

"Then you're my enemy," young Mosher argued, with thorough conviction. "So you'll put up your hands, and take further orders, as long as I give 'em, or you'll be found taking a long nap on the grass here!"

"That's another wrong guess you've made, Tag."

Laughing softly, Dick dropped to a seat on the grass.

"You're a mighty sassy fellow," scowled young Mosher.

"I'm very disobliging sometimes," Prescott admitted. "For instance, Tag, I won't believe that you're half as bad as you try to paint yourself."

"Bad?" snorted young Mosher, with something of sullen pride in his voice. "I'm about as mean as they make them. You know what they say I did to that farmer?"

"Well, did you?" challenged Prescott.

"I'm not saying," came the gruff answer. "For one thing, it wouldn't do me a bit of good to deny it. When a fellow has a bad name everywhere any judge and jury will hang him. Now, I happen to object to being hanged, or even to being locked up for perhaps twenty or thirty years. Queer in me, isn't it?"

"What you ought to do," pursued Dick, "and what you will do, if you are brave and manly, is to drop that gun, face about, and march yourself back to jail."

"And be locked up some more?" quivered Tag in excitement.

"If you're guilty of assaulting Mr. Leigh, you should be also brave and manly enough to walk back to jail, ready to pay the price of your act like a man. If you're not guilty, then you should be man enough to face the world and prove your innocence like a real man. Don't be a cowardly sneak, Tag!"

"A coward?" blurted the other angrily. "You ought to know better'n that. And the officers know better, too; I may be only a boy, but the officers are out in packs, hunting for me. I know, for I've seen two pairs of those fellows go by on the road to-day."

"Are you going to be a man, Tag, or just a sneaking coward?" asked Dick, as he rose.

"Sit down!" commanded Tag sharply.

"If you really want to talk with me, and will say 'please,' I'll sit down," Dick smiled back coolly at the angry boy. "But if you're just simply ordering me to sit down, then I won't do anything of the sort. Do you want to talk with me?"

"Sit down!"

"You didn't say 'please.'"

"I'm not going to say it."

"Then good-bye for a little while."

Though the muzzles of the sawed-off shotgun stared wickedly at him, Dick Prescott turned on his heel, walking off.

"Are you going, now, to tip the officers off that you've seen me?" called Tag.

"Yes."

Behind Dick, as he kept on his way back toward camp there came a snort of anger. Prescott was not quite as cool as he appeared to be. He knew there was at least a chance that savage Tag Mosher would send the contents of one or both barrels of the gun into his back. Dick, however, had mastered the first secret of bravery, which is to conceal one's fear.

Again snorting, young Mosher cocked both hammers of the shotgun, Dick heard the clicks, but still walked on.

"I hate to do it!" called Tag warningly.

"Oh, you won't do it," Dick answered in a tone of calm self-assurance.

Young Prescott kept on for another hundred yards. No sound came from behind him. Unless young Mosher were creeping upon him, Prescott knew that he was now out of range of the shotgun.

Impelled by curiosity, Dick wheeled about Tag Mosher was nowhere in sight.

"Either that fellow isn't half as bad as he pretends to be, or else not half as desperate as he likes to think himself," Dick chuckled.

Then, remembering, in a flash, the herbs that he had come to get, the Gridley High School boy deliberately walked back to the spot where he had left this strange vagrant of the forest.

But Tag was no longer there—not in sight, at any rate. Bending over, Prescott collected a goodly bunch of the herbs. Then, after glancing at his watch, he started back to camp.

It was late when he returned. Dave was back from his swim, the table was set, and all was in readiness to sit down.

"Too late to use the herbs to-day, I guess," said Tom, as Dick laid them down. "You were gone a long time, old fellow."

"I had quite a way to go," Dick replied quietly. Then he cut a number of grass stalks, trimming them to different lengths. "Fellows, I want you to draw lots. I don't feel any too much like a walk to Five Corners after dinner, but if I get the short straw I'll go."

"No; you'd better not try it," warned Darrin. "Your hip might begin to give you trouble before you get back. If someone has to go, let the other five draw."

But Dick insisted that the draw should decide it all.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom Reade shrewdly. "Have you found traces of Tag Mosher?"

"I've seen him," Dick replied, "and talked with him. Come to think of it, I believe two fellows had better go. The two who are to go will be those who draw the shortest straws. All ready?"

Dick covered one end of the grass stalks, so that no one could be sure as to which lot he drew. The lots fell to Reade and Darrin.

"Now, tell us about the meeting," begged Hazelton.

"Let's sit down and begin to eat," Prescott proposed. "As we eat I will describe the meeting."

Plates passed rapidly until all were served. Then Dick told his chums the story of the meeting with Tag Mosher.

XVII. DURING THE BIG STORM

"Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!"

"Who's there?" cried Dick, starting up.

Then, to the accompaniment of some giggling, came in feminine tones, high-pitched, the famous battle yell of Gridley High School.

"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-idley!"

"A lot of mere girls trying themselves out as real war-whoop artists!" uttered Reade in a tone of pretended disgust.

But Dick and Dave had jumped up, and were now running for the road as fast as they could.

It was ten days after the last word from Tag Mosher. The officers had been promptly notified by the messengers from Dick & Co., and presumably were still scouring the great stretches of forest, though so far without result.

"How did we do it, boys?" called the laughing voice of Laura Bentley, as Dick and Dave came in sight.

"Don't ask me!" begged Dave. "Girls never ought to try school yells. They ought to content themselves with waving handkerchiefs."

"Mr. Smarty!" cried Clara Marshall.

All eight of the girls were now in the burned clearing, surrounding the two boys laughingly, while Greg and Dan now ran up.

Out of the woods near the road came Dr. and Mrs. Bentley.

"Prescott," called the doctor, "we forgot to write and secure your permission for this latest vagary of mine."

"I don't know what the vagary is, sir, but the permission is assured in advance," laughed Dick. "What are you going to do, anyway, sir?"

"I'm afraid the idea will bore you," laughed Dr. Bentley, "but back in the road are the same two automobiles, also two two-horse wagons, loaded to the gunwales, so to speak. We've brought two small, portable houses, a couple of tents, a lot of bedding and supplies, and other things needed, and we're going to try to pitch a camp not too far from yours. Does the information convey any jar to your spine?"

"Not a jar," answered Dick promptly, standing with his hat off in the presence of Mrs. Bentley and the eight girls. "The only thing I notice in the way of sensation over the news is a great thrill of delight."

"It's a pity that Dave and some of the other boys couldn't find their tongues and make as good use of them as Dick has just done," pouted Belle Meade.

"Dick Prescott is our captain, always," replied Darry, with a comical sigh, "and his sway extends even to the point of his bartering away our liberties."

"Let us go on, farther into the woods," urged Belle, turning to Dr. Bentley.

"I think not," replied the doctor dryly.

"Since Prescott has been the only one to hold out the gracious hand, I believe we'll settle right down here, as a reward to Prescott and as a punishment to the others."

"Hooray for punishment!" laughed Darry. "I can take a lot of it."

"That's the first nice thing you've said," declared Miss Meade.

"I'll say a lot more if you're going to be here for the rest of the summer vacation," promised Darry.

"Not quite as long as that," declared Dr. Bentley. "But we'll be here for a few days. Then we'll go on to other camping places."

"You're going to be just in time for dinner to-day," Dick informed the new arrivals.

"We'll be just in time to get our own dinner," smiled Laura. "We have an abundance of supplies with us, and we're not going to eat you boys out of the woods. The first meal with guests will be when you come over to our camp and take revenge for the descent that we made upon you the other day."

"Dick," inquired the doctor, "where do you think we could pitch camp best?"

"It depends upon the size of your houses and tents," Prescott answered.

"Naturally. Your answer is a good deal more sensible than my question."

"Anyway," Dick suggested, in an undertone, "your camp should be just far enough away so that neither camp will intrude on the privacy of the other. I think I know a spot, if your houses are not too large."

Dr. Bentley mentioned the sizes of the two portable houses.

"The spot that I have in mind will do finely," Dick declared. "And I think you can drive the wagons in there."

Dan Dalzell was sent to the road to instruct the teamsters to drive in at the point which young Prescott mentioned.

It was not long before the two wagons were at the spot. Reade now remained at the boys' camp, to look out for things, while the other five went over to the new camp to be of assistance.

Dr. Bentley, having removed his coat, was now busily at work. The two wagons were unloaded of a host of things, after which the teamsters started, at once, to erect the portable houses. As these were of a pattern requiring but little work, they were up within a few hours.

Dick & Co. pitched the tents, also busying themselves in various other ways. Now, Mrs. Bentley, aided by the high school girls, started in to prepare the noon meal.

"We shall want you boys over here about tomorrow noon," said Laura. "By that time we shall be all to rights and ready to act as hostesses."

"Can't we come over again before to-morrow?" asked Dick, with a wistfulness that caused a general smile.

"If you don't come over except when you're especially sent for," declared Miss Meade, "you'll wake up some morning in the near future and find us gone on to the next camping place."

Dick had already told Dr. Bentley of the fugitive, Tag Mosher, and the fact that that young offender was at large in the woods, and armed.

"I'm not afraid of him," declared the doctor bluntly, "and I shall always be within sound of the camp. It wouldn't take you boys long to get over here, either, at need."

Dick now reluctantly called his chums away, as Mrs. Bentley and the high school girls might want a little time to themselves.

"It's going to be great to have such company right at hand," declared Darry gleefully.

"Only I must warn you of one thing," retorted Dick.

"What?"

"You remember the errant that brought us into the woods?"

"Football training!"

"Exactly, and even the welcome presence of the girls mustn't be allowed in the least to interfere with the serious and hard work that we have ahead of us for the honor of good old Gridley High School!"

"That goes, too," nodded Greg. "Though I am afraid the girls will feel almost neglected."

"No, they won't," Darry retorted. "The girls all belong to Gridley High School as much as we do, and they're just as big football boosters when it comes to that. They'll endure a little neglect when they know it's for the honor and glory of our school."

"Besides," suggested Dick, "they may be glad to put in a little time watching us train."

There will be no objection to that, will there?"

"Not a bit," declared the others.

Tom Reade, having been left in charge of the camp, had also taken upon himself the preparing of the dinner, though this was not his day for such service. The others now turned to help him.

"I'm glad the girls have come, and I'm also sorry," declared Reade. "If we stick to training as conscientiously as we ought to they'll feel that we're not showing them all the attention they've a right to expect."

"We won't neglect training," Dick retorted, "and the girls won't feel neglected, either. We've talked that over on the way here, and we'll explain it to the girls when we see them again. They're Gridley High School girls, and they're sensible."

It was not long ere dinner was ready. Six famished boys sat down at the table.

"I wonder what on earth is the reason that we haven't heard from Mr. Hibbert, or from the Blinders agency, either?" spoke Dick, when the meal was half over.

"I had almost forgotten about those parties," Tom rejoined. "Not hearing from Hibbert, as I take it, means that that generous young friend of ours has broken off communication with the Eagle Hotel in Gridley. But I can't understand why the agency hasn't communicated with us in some way."

Dinner was eaten in quicker time than usual. Dick and Dave, perhaps some of the others, felt a secret desire to slip over to the other camp, but no one mentioned any such wish. Instead, the dinner dishes were washed, the cooking utensils cleaned, and the camp put in a very good semblance of order.

"In forty-five minutes more," remarked Prescott, glancing at his watch, "we must be back at training work."

"Not to-day," replied Tom.

"What's the matter?" demanded Dick, looking sharply at him.

"In forty-five minutes more," exclaimed Reade, "we'll be sitting inside the tent, looking out at the weather."

"What are you talking about, Tom?" asked Darry.

"Read your answer in the skies," retorted Reade.

Though none of the other five boys had noticed it, the sky had been gradually clouding. The wind was becoming brisker, too, and there was more than the usual amount of moisture in the air.

"Pshaw! That's a shame," muttered Dick.

"I wish we might arrange it with the weather clerk to have it rain at night, after ten o'clock, and have dry ground in the day time," sighed Dave Darrin.

Yet none of the boys spoke the thought that was uppermost in more than one mind—the wish that they might go over to the Bentley camp to spend the time that it rained in the society of the girls.

It was Reade, who was perhaps less attracted by girls' society than the others who finally suggested:

"We ought to send someone over to the other camp to see if they are all fixed to stand the coming rain."

"Good idea!" nodded Dick. "You run over, Tom."

Reade was away less than ten minutes.

"Dr. Bentley says they'll be as snug as can be in the biggest kind of a summer rain that the weather clerk has on tap," Tom reported.

Flashes of lightning were now illumining the gradually darkening sky. Distant rumblings of thunder also sounded.

"I hope it won't be much of a thunderstorm," sighed Dick. "Some girls are very uneasy in a thunderstorm."

"Laura is afraid of one, I know," said Dave.

In a few minutes more the big drops of rain began to fall. Soon after swirling sheets of water descended. Dick & Co. had all they could do to keep dry in such a downpour.

"This is where the portable house has the advantage of a tent," grunted Tom. "The portable houses yonder are even equipped with some kind of rubber roofing. If this storm keeps up through the night at this rate, we'll be washed out long before daylight."

"I can stand it," retorted Prescott, "as long as I know that Mrs. Bentley and the girls are protected from the weather. Yet I won't mind if the storm does let up after an hour or two."

Conversation ceasing, after a time, all but Reade and Dalzell got out books to read from the slender stock of literature that they had brought with them into the woods.

The heavy storm made it a dull afternoon, where there might have been so much fun.

But not one of Dick & Co. had the least idea of the excitement in store for them. The storm held more than rain for many people.

XVIII. MR. PAGE'S KIND OF FATHER

As though the heavy downpour did not sufficiently indicate that the storm was still raging as heavily as ever, Harry Hazelton went to the tent doorway to peer out at the sky.

Just as suddenly he ducked back again.

"Hist!" he called. "There's someone at our canned goods stock, and I think it's Tag!"

In a twinkling Dick and Dave were by Hazelton's side. The heavy rain supplied a curtain like a light fog.

"I think that's Tag!" muttered Dick. "We'll go after him."

There was a quick diving into rubber coats. Dick and Dave were first to get outside.

But the figure seen through the rain was already under way, heading away from the tent. This figure, just as it stole under the great trees, turned to point a sawed-off shotgun their way.

"That's Tag," muttered Dick. "Come on; we'll catch him."

"Yes; if he'll kindly permit us to get close to him," rejoined Darry, as he ran at Dick's side.

Evidently the figure ahead had made a successful raid on the food, for he carried a gunnysack, and that appeared to have a load inside.

"We can catch him—if we can run fast enough," declared Dick, for just then the fugitive darted ahead with renewed speed.

"Unless he stops us with the gun," objected Dave.

"Don't let him stop you with that. I don't believe he would dare use it on us."

"If it's only a question of 'daring,'" responded Dave, "I don't believe there is anything that Tag Mosher would be afraid to do at a pinch."

Owing to the storm it was dark in the great woods. Shadows were deceptive. Though Dick and Dave ran on at pell-mell speed they presently came to a sudden halt, looking inquiringly at each other.

"Which way did that fellow go?" demanded Dave.

"Blessed if I know," Dick admitted.

"Are we still on the right trail, and merely a mile behind him?"

"I wish I knew even that," admitted Prescott.

"We might as well go back," proposed Darry. "In these woods all we'll get is—wet."

"All right," nodded Prescott. Discouraged with the chase, they turned to retrace their way nearly half a mile through the soggy, dripping woods. They had not gone far on their return when they came upon Tom and Greg.

"Hello, where have you fellows been?" asked Reade.

"We weren't very far ahead of you," Dick answered.

"Greg and I didn't see or hear you ahead."

"And Tag Mosher was just as invisible and unfindable to us," laughed Dick, "so we came back."

"I'm growing disgusted," muttered Dave, "with the stupid way that we let that fellow carry off all of our property. It begins to look as though we ought to camp in one of our own back yards, where our parents can keep a watchful eye over us and protect us!"

There could be no doubt that Darry was completely angry. Had he encountered young Mosher at that moment he would have "sailed into" the thief with his fists, regardless of any consequences that might follow.

"Well, shall we go on hunting for him?" demanded Dick.

"It's just as Darry says," offered Tom, "I'm willing to remain out in this weather if Dave wants to."

"Oh, what's the use?" grumbled Dave. "That fellow knows the woods a hundred times better than we do, and he has made his get away. Did you leave anyone back at the camp?"

"Dan and Harry are there," nodded Tom.

"We may as well join them," sighed Dave. So the party headed toward camp.

Just as they stepped out into the clearing, they sighted a rubber-coated party of three men entering the clearing from the direction of the road.

"Why, that must be our friends, Hibbert, Colquitt and Mr. Page!" announced Prescott, halting, then running forward. "They must have gotten our note at last. Oh, Mr. Hibbert!"

The three travelers waved their hands. Then it was the oldest of the trio who ran at top speed in an effort to reach Prescott quickly.

"My boy!" panted Mr. Page, seizing Dick by the shoulders. "You have found him? We received your note this morning, and have been breaking the speed laws ever since in our effort to get here. My boy! You know where he is! Perhaps he is now one of your own party? You have told him, and have kept him here against my coming?"

"No, sir; he's not here just now," Dick answered, shaking his head. "But come into the tent, sir. There is a lot to tell you."

"I can hardly contain myself to wait for the news!" cried the eager father tremulously.

Nevertheless, silence was preserved until the tent had been entered. Mr. Page, Hibbert and Colquitt were given seats on camp stools, some of the boys finding seats on empty boxes.

"Now, my boy—my son! Tell me all about him," pleaded Mr. Page. "Is he well? Does he know that I am looking for him?"

"I have hinted to him," Prescott answered, "that he is not the son of the man whom he has grown up to regard as his father. I have told him that you were looking for him, and——"

"Oh, my boy!" cried Mr. Page. "Was he pleased—or even curious?"

Prescott swallowed hard, twice, and did some rapid thinking, ere he went on, with all faces turned toward him:

"Mr. Page, if this boy turns out to be your son——"

"Describe him to me—minutely!" ordered the father.

Dick fell into a personal description of Tag Mosher. Others, as they now watched Mr. Page closely, felt that Tag must be his son. The description, as to complexion, features, hair and eyes, all tallied closely with Mr. Page's own appearance.

"Now, don't keep me in suspense any longer," begged Mr. Page. "Take me to him, that I may help decide for myself."

"If he is your son, sir," Dick went on solemnly, and hating his task, "I am much afraid that you are going to be disappointed in him. The boy is known as Tag Mosher. He believes a dissolute, drunken, thieving fellow named Bill Mosher, who is now in jail, to be his father. Tag is himself a wild young savage of the forest, and maintains himself by st—poaching."

"If this young man is, indeed, my son," murmured Mr. Page, his eyes glistening, "how fortunate that I am about to come up with him! He will have no need to steal hereafter. He shall have comfort, protection, proper training at last! But where is he? Why are you keeping me from him? How long since you have seen him?"

"Only a few minutes ago," Dick answered. "He had just robbed our food supply. We pursued him, but lost him in the woods."

"Then these woods must be scoured until the boy is found!" cried Mr. Page. "Colquitt, this is a task for you. Employ as many more of your force of detectives as you may need, but you must find the boy without an hour's delay."

"I must tell you something else, sir," Dick went on in a distressed tone. "Even for my own peace of mind I must have it over with as early as possible. Mr. Page, the boy is now roaming the woods armed with a shotgun and a revolver. He is a fugitive from justice."

"What is that you say?" cried Mr. Page, his face growing haggard and ghastly. "My boy—-my son—a fugitive from justice!"

"He may not be your son, sir," broke in Tom Colquitt.

Then the whole story came out. With it Dick described the birthmarks he had seen on Tag when the latter was at the swimming pool.

"That's my boy—my son!" declared Mr. Page. "And, oh! To think of the fate that has come upon him. Wanted, perhaps for homicide!"

Then suddenly the flash of determination returned to the father's eyes. He rose, stood erect, and went on:

"If he is my son, he needs guidance, aid—protection of such rights as he may still have left. Above all, he must surrender himself and go back to face the laws of the land like a man! If he has done wrong, he must bow to the decision of a court, whatever that may be. If this boy is my son, I will see to it that he does all of this. If he is not my son, then——"

"Then you will do well to drop him like a piece of hot metal," interposed the detective quietly.

"Silence!" flashed Mr. Page. "If Tag Mosher is not really my son, then I will stand by his last spark of manhood as though he were my son, and in memory of my own boy!"

"If you will permit me," proposed Tom Colquitt, "I will go back to the road, get into the car and order your man to drive me to the county jail. There I will see old Bill Mosher, and drag the truth out of him. What Mosher has to say will be to the point."

"Go, by all means!" pleaded Mr. Page, who had now sunk down into his seat trembling.

"And I'll go with him," declared Hibbert, jumping up. "Cheer up, my old friend, and we'll find out all the facts that there are to be learned. We'll be back here as speedily as possible."

The hours passed—hours of rain at the camp. It was a deluge that kept all hands in the tent, though even that place was wet. A pretense of supper was prepared over two oil stoves. Mr. Page made an effort to eat, but was not highly successful.

The hours dragged on, but none thought of going to bed. At last quick steps were heard outside.

"That must be Colquitt and Hibbert!" cried Mr. Page, starting up, trembling, though he soon recovered his self-control.

"Don't go out in the rain. Wait for another moment, sir," begged Dick, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Do you think I could wait another minute?" demanded Mr. Page excitedly. Then he darted out into the downpour.

"Hibbert, is that you?" he screamed.

XIX. SEEN IN A NEW, WORSE LIGHT

"It's Hibbert," was the reply from the darkness.

Then two figures came tramping through the rain, over the soggy ground, next splashing into the tent, the flaps of which Dick and Harry held aside.

As they came in Mr. Page almost tottered toward them.

"Well," he demanded impatiently. "What did you learn?"

"I guess the boy is yours, Mr. Page," Colquitt answered. "Bill Mosher told us a pretty straight story. He found the child at the railway wreck, and he and his wife took it home, expecting that parents or friends would soon claim it. Bill says his wife was a good woman, and, when no one claimed the boy, she kept it and loved it as her own. Bill admits that his part in the transaction was due to the hope of receiving a reward. After his wife died, Bill, it seems, went to the dogs, followed his naturally shiftless bent, and, from a common vagrant, became a drunkard and common thief. Yet Bill claims, with an air of a good deal of virtue, that he never stole anything he didn't really need, and that he brought Tag up the same way."

Mr. Page, white-faced and trembling, listened to the detective's dry recital.

"You have taken pains to find further verification of the fact that this unhappy boy is my son, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes," the detective went on. "Bill described with great minuteness the clothing the child wore when found, even to the embroidered letter 'p' on the underclothing. And Bill tells me that his sister has kept that clothing ever since, in the hope that something might come of it. The sister also has two pictures of Tag, taken when a baby."

"Where does that sister live?" cried the father. "Take me to her home at once!"

"She lives in another state, some four hundred miles from here," smiled Tom Colquitt. "Mr. Page, I advise that you find the boy, first. There isn't any real doubt as to his being your son. You had better wait for further proofs until after you have found the boy—who, according to all accounts, stands badly in need of a real father just now."

"You are right—quite right," admitted Mr. Page. "Yes, we will find my son first. But tell me something more. Didn't the boy know that Bill Mosher wasn't his real father?"

"No; it had never been hinted to him," Colquitt answered. "Bill kept the truth from the child, and, after Bill's wife died, they moved over into this part of the country, where no one knew their past history."

"And has my son never been in school?"

"Oh, yes; the compulsory education law came to the rescue, and the boy had a grammar school education before he took to the woods altogether."

"I know something definite, at last," sighed the unhappy father. "I know that my boy is alive, and that he needs a father. Moreover, I feel certain that he is at this moment not far away from me. What shall we do next? Did you wire for more detectives from your agency?"

"There was no need to do so," Colquitt replied. "There are several officers now looking for the lad, and they are certain to come upon him. Hibbert and I will aid in the search. The chauffeur will bring in four folding cots and some blankets. We shall have to impose upon these young men for shelter to-night, as this is the point from which we must take up the chase in the morning."

At least one man in the tent lay with eyes wide open all night, and that was Mr. Page. By daylight the rain had stopped. The sun came up, drying the ground in the open spaces, raising a semi-fog under the big trees as the moisture steamed up. It was a close, humid morning, yet all rose so early that breakfast had been eaten before six o'clock.

Then Mr. Page's party went away in the automobile, on some errand of their own.

"I wonder how the girls got through the rain last night?" mused Dave Darrin.

"They must have gotten along all right,"

Dick replied. "They had two dry houses in, which to sleep."

"I've a good mind to go over now, and make some inquiries," Dave pursued. "Will you come with me?"

"No, and I'd advise you not to go, either. Six in the morning is too early to call on young women."

"That's so," Dave assented. "What time should we go over?"

"As this is camp life, I should say it might be all right for us to drop over there soon after nine o'clock," Dick said slowly. "How does that strike you?"

"If that's too early," pondered Darry wonderingly, "then we might go within sight of the camp, as if looking for firewood, but not go over to them unless we get a hail."

"That would be a subterfuge," Dick replied, shaking his head. "Straight dealing is always the best rule in anything."

However, Dr. Bentley settled the question of etiquette himself, by coming over to the boys' camp shortly after eight o'clock.

"Mrs. Bentley sent me to see if you got through the night without being drowned," smiled the physician.

"We look pretty healthy, don't, we, sir?" smiled Dick.

"Speaking professionally, I would say that you do," agreed Dr. Bentley. "However, I believe you must have had a pretty dismal time in all that downpour. Have you been in the woods this morning? They are pretty wet, aren't they?"

"The woods are damp, sir," Prescott answered, "but not really wet. The water has soaked fairly well into the ground since sun-up."

"Are the woods dry enough for a little botanizing?" asked the doctor. "Laura and Belle say they have a few plants in mind that they want to add to their collection of botanical specimens. Are you two young men ready to escort them?"

"Certainly, sir," Dick nodded. "And the forenoon will be the best time, as we must go through our training work this afternoon."

"Hang my luck!" muttered Darrin in sudden disgust. "This is my day to do the cooking here."

"One of the other fellows will take your turn," suggested Prescott.

"I won't ask anyone to do it," sighed Darry. "I'm man enough to shoulder my own share of the camp work. Dick, you can look after both girls, can't you? And you'll make my excuses satisfactorily to Miss Meade?"

"That's right—just right, David," spoke the physician. "Do your own work like a man. I'll undertake to make your excuses so well that Belle will have a higher opinion of you if that were possible. Dick, shall the girls look for you within the next few minutes?"

"I'll be there soon, doctor."

Five minutes later Dick presented himself at the other camp. He went first to Mrs. Bentley and inquired as to her comfort during the storm.

"We know Dave can't come, but where are the other boys?" inquired Clara Marshall.

"Over at the camp," smiled Dick.

"Don't they think that we need attention?" asked Susie Sharp.

"Tom is hauling firewood," Dick explained. "Greg is chopping it up. Harry is hauling the water supply and Dan is doing the housework in the tent."

"Laura and Belle have an escort for their trip into the forest, but it's not a rosy outlook for the rest of us," Clara pouted.

"Can't we all go together?" proposed Dick. "Surely, one guide ought to be enough for a party of eight girls."

Susie decided to join the botanizing party. The other girls made up their minds to take a walk under Dr. Bentley's escort. So Dick started away with the trio.

Belle and Laura carried the regulation oval cans for holding such plant specimens as they might collect. Prescott promptly offered to carry both cans, but the two girls declared that they were not going to permit him to impose upon himself.

For fifteen minutes the young people went on, farther into the forest. Though the girls wore overshoes, Dick went ahead to pick out the drier paths.

Collecting botanical specimens, though interesting to amateurs or experts, is dull work for onlookers. As both Belle and Laura were enthusiastic workers, Dick found himself walking chiefly with Susie Sharp. There was much waiting while Laura and Belle dug their mosses and plants.

Finally, Dick and Susie found themselves standing together, some feet from Laura and Belle, who were gathering wild flowers.

"Look at those beautiful purple blossoms over there!" cried Susie in sudden enthusiasm.

"Are you going to turn collector, too?" smiled Dick.

"To the extent of wanting a bouquet of those flowers," Susie declared. "Will you help me?"

"With great pleasure. If you will wait here, I will get the bouquet for you. It will take me hardly a minute."

Dick started away alone. By the time that he had picked a good-sized handful, Susie started to meet him. For the moment she was out of sight of the other girls.

Dick came toward Miss Sharp, holding out the gorgeous blossoms.

"Will these be enough?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes! Thank you so much!"

"It was a very slight service," Prescott laughed. "I am glad to have pleased——"

A sudden scream brought his gallant speech to an abrupt stop.

"Oh, Dick! Be quick!" sounded the voice.

"Pardon me," said Prescott to Susie, as he sprang forward through the brush.

It was a startling scene that met the high school boy's gaze as he bounded forward.

Tag Mosher, holding his shotgun under his left arm, stood confronting Laura and Belle. In his right, hand he held a gold chain and locket that he had snatched from Laura Bentley's neck. In one of his pockets, out of sight, now rested two valuable rings that he had forcibly stripped from one of Belle's hands.

"Sorry, girls," he was saying. "I never did anything quite as bad as this before. But if you knew how badly I need to get away from these parts you'd know why I'm holding up girls to get money to pay my fare, and——"

Just then Tag Mosher caught sight of Dick Prescott.

"Stand back!" warned Tag hoarsely. "I don't want to have to do anything worse than I've just done. Stand back, or by the blue sky——"

XX. SOME IMITATION VILLAINY

"Oh, Dick, do keep back. He won't harm us further," cried Laura.

Prescott ran forward by leaps and bounds.

"If you will have it——" growled Tag, cocking both hammers of his ugly weapon.

Laura uttered another scream, then, with sudden frenzy, seized the barrels of the gun.

"Let go!" yelled Dick, racing up. "If he fires, even accidentally, you'll be killed."

"Then let him put down the gun," panted Laura without releasing her hold.

Belle seized Tag by his right arm, hanging on frantically.

But Dick, reaching the spot, laid hands on the shotgun.

"Let go, Laura," he commanded sternly. "I have hold of this gun."

It was the tone of the high school boy, not her own fear, that made Laura Bentley obey.

"Let go of his arm, Belle," Dick insisted. "You girls get back out of harm's way."

"I won't let go," Belle insisted. Then she resorted, excusably under the circumstances, to the somewhat feminine trick, of pinching Tag Mosher's arm sharply.

That started the real fight. Dick tripped the bigger fellow, and the pair went down together as Belle leaped back.

Click! click! sounded both descending hammers of the sawed-off shotgun. For an instant—Prescott's heart was in his mouth, for he knew something of the wicked scattering power of such a weapon, when discharged, and he feared for the girls.

The next instant, however, his common sense told him that the hammers had descended harmlessly. By desperate force he wrenched the piece out of Tag's hands, hurling it away.

Laura's locket, and chain falling to the ground, Belle darted in and rescued them.

"He has my rings in his right-hand coat pocket," Belle announced.

"He'll give them up, then!" predicted Dick grimly, making a dive for that pocket. He was on top, in the mix-up, and secured the rings, tossing them toward Belle. Then Tag, by a violent effort, hurled Prescott from him and rose, ready for battle.

But Dick landed close beside the sawed-off shotgun, which he snatched from the ground as he rose to his feet.

"You cur!" said Dick. "Robbing girls!"

"I hated to do it," growled Tag, looking somewhat shamefaced. "But I've got to have money to get away from this corner of the world. The deputies are out after me, and they'll get me yet, if I stay here."

With a quick movement Dick threw the gun open at the breech.

"It isn't loaded," Tag informed him grimly. "This is the piece of iron that holds cartridges."

From a hip pocket he brought a heavy, long-barreled revolver into sight.

"You can't scare me with firearms," declared Dick doughtily. "Nor are you going to rob these young women, who are my best friends."

"I'm not going to try again," announced Tag. "What I want is for you to keep away from me, and not follow me. If you do—well, you can guess the answer! Now, as I'm going, give me that gun."

"I won't," Dick declared firmly, holding it by the muzzle and ready to employ the weapon as a club.

"You'll make a lot of trouble and danger for yourself and the girls if you don't put the gun on the ground and walk away from it," warned Tag, glowering.

"I won't drop the only weapon that I have," Dick returned firmly. "You could down me easily unless I had something like this to swing. As long as these young women are under my protection I will not give up the only weapon that I have."

"If I press the trigger of this pistol," challenged Tag, "will you be able to offer the girls much protection then?"

"Perhaps not," Prescott rejoined. "But shooting me will be the only way that you can get this gun from me."

There could be no doubt that the high school boy meant just what he said. Tag, who was not accustomed to wasting time in crises, turned angrily on his heel.

"Hold on there a moment," called Dick. The other boy baited, turning about. "Do you remember what I told you the other day?" demanded Prescott.

"You've told me a lot of things I never took from any other kid," growled Tag.

"Do you remember what I told you about your father, his love for you, and his desire to meet and claim you?"

"Old Bill Mosher's love?" laughed Tag harshly. "I'd stay and laugh a while at that, but I've other business for to-day."

"No; your real father, Mr. Page!" Dick cried after him, as Tag started away. "Bill Mosher found you in a railroad wreck. Your real father is a man of wealth. He is nearly broken down from the many anxieties of trying to find you. He spent last night at our camp. This morning he and friends of his started off to find you. Tag, come back here, and I'll take you into camp."

"No, thank you!" leered the larger boy. "I've been taken into camp before, and you're the lad that turned the trick. You turned me over to Valden and Simmons, and they turned me over to the warden at the jail. I'm not going back to that jail—alive!"

"You foolish fellow! Can't you understand?" bellowed Dick, following Tag as he once more turned away. "I'm telling you the truth, and your father is only too anxious to employ all his wealth in protecting whatever rights you may have. Bill Mosher was seen at the jail yesterday, and he admitted that you were not his son, but that he found you as a baby at a railroad wreck! Tag, use your brains, for once, and come back to camp to meet your father!"

"Good-bye!" laughed the larger boy derisively, increasing his fast walk to a run.

Desperately, Dick Prescott followed. As Tag sprinted, so did the high school boy.

Looking back, young Mosher tripped over a root, and fell heavily. The revolver flew from his hand landing several feet away. Prescott was now so close that Tag sprang to his feet and ran on without making any effort to recover his lost weapon.

Then the larger boy dived into a thicket. He did not appear again. Master of every hidden path in these forests, he seemed likely enough to get away without leaving a trace of a trail.

Dick halted, brought to his senses by the realization that he had deserted the three high school girls who had been entrusted to his escort. He turned about. At the spot where Tag had tripped he bent over to pick up the abandoned revolver.

One glance into the cylinder was enough. There wasn't a cartridge in the weapon.

"Just as I thought," laughed Dick triumphantly. "Tag had no notion of shooting anyone. For fear he might do so, if too closely cornered, he threw away the ammunition. He relied on the bad reputation of the Moshers to make officers hesitate if they encountered him with firearms in his hands."

Then Prescott called for the girls, whom he quickly rejoined.

"You didn't catch him?" asked Laura.

"Not I," laughed Dick. "He knows every trail in these woods and in a sprint, Tag Mosher could leave me hitched to a tree."

"I'm thankful you didn't catch him," quivered Miss Bentley. "He's a terrible fellow."

"Is he?" laughed Prescott good-humoredly. "As a bad man Tag Mosher, or young Page, as he really ought to be called, is about the biggest bluff that I've ever heard of. Look at these weapons. Both unloaded. Yet, when Tag broke jail, he carried away ammunition enough to hold a company of militia at bay. Tag doesn't want to shoot anyone. All he wants to do is to scare pursuers."

"He's a ruffian, anyway," Belle declared.

"Why? Was he very rough with you?" Dick inquired. "Did he tear your rings off recklessly, and hurt your hands?"

"No; but be held my hand so firmly that I simply couldn't pull it out of his clutch," Belle replied. "Then he took off my rings as easily and in as matter-of-fact way as though they were his own property."

"He really didn't mean to hurt you," Dick explained. "He has been trained, from babyhood, to make his living by appropriating other people's belongings, and he was only obeying his training. The officers are after him, and Tag, not wishing to be caught, wants to put considerable distance between himself and these woods. Yet no matter what he does, or where he goes, the officers will finally find him. Law is supreme, and triumphs in the end. No man may defy the police and courts of a nation and get away with it for any great length of time."

"Would you have tried to catch him, if we hadn't been with you?" asked Laura.

"Yes," Dick admitted. "Though under the circumstances I had no right to do anything but stay here with you and try to protect you. Shall we go on with the collecting?"

"If the other girls want to do so," agree Susie Sharp.

"If we want to?" Laura echoed. "After the fright we've had? All that we want to do is to——"

"Get back to camp?" smiled Dick. "I'm wholly agreeable. Truth to tell, I've had such a fright that my nerves are shattered."

"Your nerves shattered?" echoed Belle scornfully. "Tell that to someone who never lived in Gridley, Dick Prescott! You flew at that fellow like a tiger."

"But look at the magnificent help I had!" smiled Dick.

XXI. THE MEDICAL EXAMINER TALKS TRAINING

"Do you want a suggestion, Prescott?" inquired Dr. Bentley.

The physician and his party had been over at the high school boys' camp for something like twenty minutes, that same afternoon, watching the training work that the young athletes were undergoing.

"Yes, sir," Dick answered promptly. Then a sudden thought striking him, he added:

"Perhaps I can make a suggestion, doctor, that is even more immediate in its nature than yours."

"Then I shall be glad to have it," smiled Laura's father.

"Did you leave that chauffeur to watch your camp?"

"No; he has gone to Five Corners to post the young women's numerous letters. But the camp doesn't need a guard, does it?"

"It does, as long as Tag Mosher is at large, sir. Harry, won't you go over to the doctor's camp and stay there until the chauffeur returns?"

"Yes," agreed Hazelton.

"If you sight Tag, or any other doubtful-looking characters, just give a yell, and we'll all come over."

"Would that young scamp bother our camp, really?" inquired the physician.

"Certainly he would," Dick went on promptly. "Mosher, Page, or whoever he really is, is just as natural an anarchist as the world ever saw. He has never had anything of his own, and whenever he sees anyone else's property that will serve him, he just says, 'Tag, you're It!' That's the way he got his nickname."

"I believe I'll go over with Harry and see if anything is missing," declared Dr. Bentley. "In the meantime, Prescott, suppose you and your squad rest until I return. Just make yourselves agreeable to the girls. I'll endeavor to be back promptly. When I come back I shall be prepared to offer you some training suggestions that may be of value to you."

So the flushed young athletes rested, except Harry, who departed with the physician.

In fifteen minutes Dr. Bentley returned.

"Your warning came too late, Prescott," announced Laura's father cheerily. "Our camp has been visited."

"Tag Mosher?" gasped Prescott.

"Impossible to say," was the smiling answer. "The caller forgot to leave a card. But someone has cleaned us out of about a dozen tins of food and some packages of biscuit. It must have been quite a little load. Just by chance I also happened to think to look at my medicine case. One vial is missing therefrom."

"What medicine did he take, did you say, sir?" asked Dave Darrin much interested.

"I believe I didn't say," replied Dr. Bentley. "Perhaps later on I shall tell you."

"If the thief took only a dozen tins," said Mrs. Bentley, "there is food enough left so that we needn't worry about immediate famine. And we have two cars, either one of which may be despatched to bring further supplies."

"Tag is really going to move away from here, then," decided Dick thoughtfully.

"Why do you say that?" asked Dr. Bentley.

"Because Tag has a fine appetite, and an abundance of muscle. Instead of a dozen tins he would have taken three or four times that amount. It is only his need for traveling in light marching order that made him so moderate in the tax he levied."

"It's only an incident," continued Dr. Bentley. "And I am glad of it. It shows that the young scamp is still in this neighborhood, and that means that there is still a fair chance of his being captured."

"I wonder why he stole one particular drug from your case?" Dick mused aloud.

Dr. Bentley smiled, not relieving Prescott's curiosity as to the name of the missing drug.

"It can't be that Tag means to commit suicide, as a last resort, can it?" Dick suggested.

"I think not," smiled Dr. Bentley.

Then the leader of Dick & Co. gave up further effort along this line to secure the desired information.

"I started in to offer you a suggestion, Prescott," continued the medical man.

"Yes, sir; it had something to do with training, I believe."

"Before I tell you what I have to say, Prescott, suppose you put each of your 'men' through the stunts they were doing before."

"Which one first, sir?"

"Any one of the young men."

"Dave!" called Dick.

Darrin stepped forward.

"One moment," said Dr. Bentley. He felt Dave's pulse, then nodded. "Go ahead, Darrin."

Dave started in with the work.

"Speed it up!" ordered Dick. "Faster! Drive!"

Darry continued at his training work until Dr. Bentley called:

"Stop! Now, stand still, young man."

Bending over, Dr. Bentley placed one ear against Dave's chest, watch in hand, while the others looked on curiously.

"Just what I thought," nodded the physician, looking up at last. "Prescott, you have a lot of bright ideas in training, but you're driving your squad too hard. Darrin's heart doesn't come down to normal speed as soon as it should."

"Anything wrong with the heart, sir" asked Darry.

"Nothing. It's the trainer that's wrong," replied Dr. Bentley. "It is a fault with a lot of trainers without long experience that they work an athlete's heart overtime. Darrin's heart should have slowed down in a little more than half the time required in this instance. Set another man at work, Prescott. I can show you how to do this properly. Let the others work as hard as Darrin did. I want data to work on. Then I'll lay down a few suggestions that will serve you well."

This not being interesting to the high school girls, they chatted among themselves.

In the end Dr. Bentley read off some figures he had jotted down, and explained to Prescott what he must regard as a satisfactory heart performance after each bit of training work.

"Now, whenever you don't bring your work, fairly close to these limits you'll know that you're overdoing the training," Dr. Bentley explained. "If you overdo on training then you injure the chances of the men of your squad. The wise trainer keeps within limits. Keep within such limits, and you'll find that, bit by bit, your men can endure more and more, and still pass satisfactorily as to diminishing heart speed after stopping grilling."

"It's mighty good of you to explain all this to us, sir," Dick protested, gratefully.

"Not in the least," replied Dr. Bentley. "You may recall the fact that I'm medical examiner to the High School Athletic Association."

"And I also recall, sir," Prescott rejoined, "that for your work with the high school athletes you accept a salary of only one dollar a year, in place of the hundred dollars that the Athletic Association offered."

"Well, if I cut prices in selected instances, that's my own affair, isn't it?" smiled the physician.

"Now, we'll go on with the training work," Dick soon announced, stepping forward. "Reade! Darrin!"

So the work went on, though it was not quite so grilling after that. The girls looked on with interest, at first, but there was no contest in hand—nothing for any "side" to win, so presently the high school girls found the spectacle less interesting.

Tom, standing by, mopping his face, turned to see that Miss Marshall, her red parasol resting over one shoulder, had strolled away.

"That was kind of Clara," laughed Tom.

"What was?" inquired Belle.

"To take that red sunshade further off. It made me perspire to look at it."

"Red silk shuts out some of the worst rays of the sun," Laura explained wisely.

"Does it?" asked Tom. "I know there must be some excuse for carrying a red sunshade."

Then suddenly he colored, remarking:

"That wasn't very gallant of me, but I didn't mean it quite the way it sounds."

"And a red parasol helps throw a little tinge of color over a face that hasn't any too much color of its own," added Susie. "Clara is always more or less pale in summer."

"She might be a lot more pale if any of those wild cattle were to roam back this way," smiled Dr. Bentley.

Hardly had he uttered the words when, from the edge of the woods, there came a piercing scream, followed by a deep, bass bellow that seemed to shake the ground.

All hands turned instantly, to see Clara running frantically, waving the parasol in her fright, while not very far behind her charged a bull, its head lowered.

"Drop your parasol!" cried Greg. "Throw it away."

"Then turn and run in another direction!" shouted Darrin.

Neither Dr. Bentley nor Dick Prescott uttered a word. They had no advice ready at the instant, but turned and ran toward the imperiled girl as fast as they could go.

Unused to such exercise, Dr. Bentley, who got the first start, was quickly panting and red of face.

By him like a streak shot Dick Prescott, running with the speed of the sprinter.

To face the bull empty handed was worse than useless. Dick had to form his plans as he ran.

XXII. PLAYING RAGTIME ON MR. BULL

"Drop your parasol! Throw it away!" screamed her friends in unison.

But Clara, emitting another shriek, seemed too frightened to comprehend. She tried to redouble her speed, but the bull was rapidly gaining on her in the pursuit.

As all stood gazing at the panic-stricken girl, Dick Prescott shot across the field.

What happened next was that Dick snatched the flaming red parasol from her hand, then swung her shoulders about, thus forcing the girl to face in another direction.

"Run—the way you're headed!" he yelled hoarsely.

The bull was close upon them. Giving the parasol a flourish in the maddened animal's face, Prescott started off in the direction from which the bull had come.

"Get up a tree, Prescott, as quickly as you can!" panted Dr. Bentley.

But Dick, not even pausing to shake his head, put all his effort into a fresh burst of speed.

Running away from the camp, flaunting the red parasol, Dick was followed closely by the bellowing bull. For a short distance, anyway, the sprinter could run as fast as the pursuer.

Dick swiftly decided, now that he had the bull in voluntary tow, to lead the animal where the trees were thicker. Here an agile candidate for football honors ought to be able to daze and exhaust the bull by darting from tree to tree.

The plan had its dangers, however, and Dick knew them well.

Once in among the trees Dick tossed the parasol to one side, then darted off on an oblique line.

Bellowing, stumbling, the bull turned clumsily to follow him.

Again Dick changed his course, though, purposely, he took pains not to get too far from camp.

Now he saw his chums running towards him.

"Keep away! Don't get near the bull!" he yelled.

"We've sent Dan to get the rope in the tent," Reade called back.

"Now, what in the world do the boys think they're going to do with a rope?" Prescott wondered.

Suddenly, as he dodged off on a new track to escape the bull, a plan flashed into Prescott's mind.

"Get up a tree!" yelled Dave.

"Hardly time enough," Dick retorted, dodging again and sprinting briefly out of harm's way. "When Dan brings the rope throw it so that one end will rest in the lowest fork of that young chestnut tree."

Dave Darrin heard, understood and nodded.

"Rope's ready in the chestnut tree," he called, as Dick started on still another track, pursued, clumsily, by the angry bull.

"Get back out of harm's way," shouted Dick. "Get back, or you will hinder me."

In three changing sprints Dick manoeuvred to reach the chestnut tree, though the clumsy bull was barely twenty feet behind him and coming fast.

As the rope hung from the crotch of the tree both ends trailed on the ground. Seizing both lines Dick went up rapidly hand over hand, his feet braced against the tree trunk. In this position he was able to run nimbly up the side of the trunk.

Bump! The bull's head landed against the tree, the shock nearly bringing the high school boy to the ground. Dick managed to hold on to the rope, though his feet slipped from the trunk.

Rapidly he drew himself up into the crotch of the tree. Bump—again! Any animal with a head less hard would have been stunned outright.

Even Mr. Bull, after the second charge at the tree, backed off, head lowered, pawing the ground, willing to consider ere making a renewed attack.

The tree was in no danger of snapping. It was too stout for that. Prescott's only danger, just at present, was that of being dislodged by the force of those mad charges.

Turning, and beholding his friends closer than was safe, Prescott shouted to them:

"Get back, fellows! You can't do any good here now, and the bull may turn on you. Get 'way back! I'll call you when I'm ready for your help."

"What do you think you're going to be able to do up that tree?" jeered Danny Grin, as he nevertheless backed away with the others.

"I'm going to do something, if there's any way to do it," Dick answered. "How is Clara?"

"Safe," pronounced Tom.

"Hysterical?"

"No; only trembling."

Dick had hauled up the rope. Now, with a speculative air, he was making a slip noose at one end. He still hadn't a very definite idea of what he was going to do to the bull. Prescott was making a lariat, though he had no skill in the use of such a thing.

Presently, however, the mad animal came closer, stamping, head lowered.

"Nice fellow! Nice fellow!" Dick called mockingly. "Wouldn't you like to have me come down to talk with you?"

Attracted by the voice, the bull raised its head, showing its flaming eyes.

"I wonder!" mused Dick, half aloud, as he leaned out cautiously over a limb. "I wonder."

Then, by way of finding out, he dropped the noose suddenly. It fell over the animal's head and around its neck.

Warned by the touch of the rope, the bull backed hastily off, nearly hauling the high school boy out of the tree.

"There's just one chance to get you, and that's happening now," mused Dick Prescott, as, still holding to the rope, he fairly shot down the tree trunk.

For an instant the bull watched as though incredulous. It gave Dick time to touch his feet to the ground, passing the rope loosely once around the tree trunk.

As the bull lumbered forward Prescott pulled on his rope, while retreating in the opposite direction.

All in a twinkling the bull's head was close to the tree, and Dick with the end of the rope in his hands, and aided by the twist around the tree, had a leverage that enable him to hold the bull there.

For a few moments the dirt fairly flew before the maddened animal's efforts to free itself. Then, finding itself a prisoner, with its head fastened close to the tree, the bull again stopped to consider.

"You fellows can come over here now," Dick called. "The bull is safely caught—provided neither the rope nor the tree break."

With a yell of delight Dick's chums ran to the spot. Dr. Bentley came, too, though he walked.

Dick's success did not seem destined, how ever to last. A halt and a rest seemed to give the bull strength far greater than it had used in pulling against the rope before. With an angry snort the animal dug its hind hoofs into the soil and began to back away.

"Help!" called Prescott, suddenly, for he found the rope slipping through his fingers, the friction burning his flesh. Mr. Bull had succeeded in backing four feet away from the tree. He would speedily be able to free himself altogether.

Tom and Dave now came running. They threw their weight and muscle upon the rope to hinder the captive animal. But that great creature seemed likely soon to overcome the strength of all those combined against him.

"Come on!" called Dick, backing away on a new course. "Off this way, to the next tree behind me. Hold on and pull for every pound you're worth."

Seeing his opponents plainly engaged in making some new move the wild animal halted, eyeing them balefully. That hesitation proved fatal to his immediate freedom, for Dick had succeeded in getting the rope around the tree behind him. Now he took another quick hitch, supplementing this with a knot, then another and a third.

"I guess we may all let go of the rope now," Prescott smiled. "I don't believe the bull can pull successfully against that triple knot."

Mr. Bull was trying it, at any rate. His angry bellows were almost as loud as the roaring of a lion. Dirt flew. The beast exerted its whole power in its efforts to get free.

"The knot will hold," pronounced Dr. Bentley, after a critical survey. "The great danger is friction, which may wear out that part of the rope hitched around the first tree. If that happens we shall all have to run for our lives. Come back here, Prescott! What are you going to do?"

For Dick, leaving the little group, had started on a run for the bull.

XXIII. WHAT TAG "BORROWED" FROM THE DOCTOR

"I want to see how the rope is faring," Dick explained.

"If it fares badly," called Dr. Bentley dryly, "you will find your curiosity possibly fatal. Come back here. It is time for us to be getting away. I am sorry we have no fire arms, or we could settle Mr. Bull very quickly. Come along, boys! Come, Dick!"

But Prescott, for once, didn't prove over, tractable. He went closer, anxiously studying the condition of the rope wound around the first tree. Until Dick was ready to go none of his chums would leave the scene. Dr. Bentley had turned away; but when he found himself unaccompanied, he wheeled about once more.

"You can't do anything—except run in danger, Dick," the physician called anxiously.

"I am studying this business trying to find out if there isn't something that I can do," Prescott replied.

"There isn't," Dr. Bentley assured the boy, walking over to him, "and by staying you're only putting your life in almost certain jeopardy."

But Prescott shook his head and went on studying the turn of rope around the tree trunk.

"You foolhardy fellow, I wish I had authority to order you away from here," exclaimed the physician irascible.

"I know you think I'm foolhardy, sir," Dick answered respectfully, "but, from the way the rope is fraying, this beast is going to be free presently. I feel that I simply have to find a way to prevent his doing mischief. We boys can take to trees, but how about the girls? How about Mrs. Bentley?"

"They can get inside of the wooden houses at need," urged Dr. Bentley. "It is hardly likely that even a crazy bull would attack a wooden house."

"He might charge through our camp, though, and frankly, doctor, we can't afford to lose that camp," Prescott argued.

"You other boys get back!" commanded Dr. Bentley, but Dick's chums came closer.

"Hoo-hoo! hoo-hoo!" sounded a masculine voice from the direction of Dick & Co.'s camp.

"Hoo-hoo!" Dick answered, in his loudest tone. "Who are you?"

"Hibbert," came the reply. "I understand you are bull chasing!"

"Yes."

"Want any help?"

"Yes; if you're an expert in handling wild bulls," Dick shouted back, between his hands.

"I guess that will hold him, for a little while," chuckled Dave. "The idea of Hibbert handling wild bulls with those dainty little white hands of his!"

Soon the sound of running steps was heard. Then on the scene came Hibbert, carrying a second rope that he had found.

"A queer hitch-up you've got there," murmured the dapper little man, as he halted near the group.

"Yes; and the bull is going to get away pretty soon, according to all predictions," replied Tom Reade. "Though, perhaps, Mr. Hibbert, you may have an idea that hasn't occurred to our addled brains."

"That's hardly likely," murmured the young man, as he began to tie a running noose in one end of the rope with an air of preoccupation. "I don't know very much about cattle."

"I suppose not," Tom nodded.

"The very little that I know about the beasts," Hibbert went on quietly, "was what I picked up during my college vacations, when my good old Dad sent me west to rough it on a ranch. I'm not a cowboy at all, you know. All I know about them I discovered merely by sitting in saddle and watching the cowboys."

Now Hibbert slipped around to the rear of the bull, which, for the moment, was behaving very quietly.

"Look out!" yelled Prescott suddenly, for Hibbert, slipping in closer, had begun to tease the beast's left quarter. Mr. Bull, as though resenting such familiarity with all his force, reared, plunged, snorted. The rope hitched about the tree seemed likely to snap at any moment.

Just as the bull came down on its hind legs, its forefeet raised in the air, Hibbert made a swishing throw.

"Hurrah!" broke swiftly from the onlookers, for the dapper young man had made a throw that had roped the animal's forelegs together. Hibbert made a sudden haul-in on the rope, with the result that the bulky beast crashed sideways, falling.

Then, all in a twinkling Hibbert leaped in, hobbling the thrown beast effectively. Having done this he made a few knots in the rope with workmanlike indifference.

"Now, the beast won't run about very fast, if he get's up," remarked Mr. Hibbert, rising from his task. "For that matter, I hardly believe he'll get up."

Hibbert next busied himself with gathering in the rope that Dick had used. Cutting this off beyond the point where some of the strands had become frayed, Hibbert made a new cast about the bull's head, then tied that animal effectively to the tree.

"Fixed the way he now is," remarked Mr. Hibbert pensively, "I believe Mr. Bull, unless he has human aid in freeing himself, will still be here when the meat inspector gets around."

"For a man who knows nothing about cattle," said Tom Reade, breaking the silence of the on-lookers, "it seems to me that you've done a most workmanlike job with that bull."

"To an amateur like you or me," admitted Hibbert modestly, "it looks like a very fair little tie-up. But I'm afraid my former friends on the Three-Bar-X would feel decidedly ashamed of me. Shall we now go back to camp, or were you intending to go further into the woods?"

"I believe we'd better go back to camp," said Dr. Bentley. "You didn't come alone, did you, Mr. Hibbert?"

"Oh, no, indeed," replied the dapper little man. "Mr. Page and Colquitt are waiting back at the camp."

As the party came in sight of the camp the women were plainly still agitated.

"We've treed the bull!" shouted Dr. Bentley. "At least, I mean, he's safe."

"He's been safe all along," cabled back Mrs. Bentley. "But are we safe, too?"

"The bull is roped so that he will do no harm," Dr. Bentley answered. "None of you need feel the least uneasiness now. The work that young Prescott started so well Mr. Hibbert has finished satisfactorily. The bull cannot get loose and do you any harm. He will stay just where he is until some of the local cattlemen come along to take care of him."

Just before dark, it may be added, two of the tenders employed by the owners of the cattle were stopped in passing. They led the bull away, the animal's legs being partly hobbled.

"You haven't seen my boy," remarked Mr. Page wistfully, as Dick and his chums reached the space before the tent.

"I am afraid we hardly expected to see him again, sir," Prescott answered. "As you've doubtless heard, sir, your son has been back this way, and visited Dr. Bentley's camp. From there, I take it, he meant to make his escape out of these woods for good and all. I have an idea, Mr. Page, that a further hunt will lead far away from here."

"My son ought not to be able to get far away," went on the father, holding out a handbill. "I have felt obliged to proclaim a reward of a thousand dollars for the boy's discovery within a week, with a further thousand if it happens within three days, and still another thousand for his being brought to me within twenty-four hours."

"Then you can expect results, sir!" Dick went on, brightening. "Money talks, I've heard."

"And talks in every language," added Reade. "Mr. Page, a lot of men who are not police or peace officers will be out hunting for young Mr. Page. 'Tag Mosher' will be more eagerly sought for than ever before in his life.

"I don't see how Tag has a ghost of a show to get away," observed Dave Darrin.

"Whew, but I'm thirsty," remarked Dr. Bentley, going over to the spot where the drinking dipper hung. "And it looks as though it were my turn to go after water."

"Is there no water there?" Prescott inquired.

"Not a drop."

"Then I'll get some water, doctor," offered Dick, coming forward and taking up a pail.

He went briskly away to the spring where the boys obtained their water supply. The spring was some distance from camp. Dick reached the little glade where the spring lay, and turned down into it. As he did so he saw a movement of the bushes, as though some animal had crawled into shelter.

"Anyway, it wasn't anything as large as a bull," laughed Dick, as he bent over the spring, bucket in hand. He filled the bucket, then set it down on the ground.

"I wonder what is under those bushes?" he muttered, boyish curiosity coming to the surface.

Prying the bushes apart, stepping forward, he suddenly halted, a cry of astonishment coming to his lips.

"You, Tag?" he questioned, in astonishment, gazing down at the sullen face of the larger boy who lay on his back in the thicket.

"Yes; it's Tag, and I'm It," mocked the other.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you to call your friends, the officers. There's a reward offered for me, I suppose."

"Yes; there is," answered Dick, wondering why Tag didn't leap up and scurry away. "And guess who offers the reward?"

"Who?"

"Your father!"

"Bill Mosher?" laughed Tag, despite his sulky air. "What does Bill offer? The next dozen of eggs?"

"Tag, Bill Mosher isn't your father, and he has admitted it. You were a strange child that came into his care, and he kept you, at first, hoping for a reward. Your real name is Page, and your real father is now over at camp. I'll call him."

"You may as well," agreed Tag sullenly. "But Page is a new name. Is that what they call the sheriff now?"

"Tag, aren't you ever going to be serious?" demanded Dick, flushing with eagerness.

"Not while you go on springing the same old line of fairy tales on me," retorted the other lad. "Is my father, as you call him, as rich as he was yesterday and the day before? Has he still barrels of money that he's waiting to hand me? Money? Humph! If it hadn't been for money I wouldn't be in the fix I am now. Prescott, I'll tell you something. I've kept the cupboard full by stealing. I'll admit that. But I never stole money before to-day. I went through those dog-houses—what do you call them?"

"Do you mean the portable houses of the Bentley party?" asked Dick.

"I guess that's the right name. Anyway, I went through those houses to gather in some food, for I was going to leave these woods for good and all."

"So I guessed," nodded Dick.

"And I came across two twenty dollar bills. Prescott, I've always helped myself to food, because, some way, it always seemed to me that food belongs to the fellow who needs it most. But I had never taken any money, before, from anyone. That's honest—flat! But the twenties looked fine to me. They would carry me a long way on the railroad, and I haven't had any notion to stay here and go to jail for something I didn't do anyway. So I took the money, the grub, too, and stepped off fast through the woods. But, Prescott, you may believe me or not, that money got heavier with every step. Remember, I've never had any practice in stealing money. By the time I'd gone three or four miles that money in my pocket got so heavy that I couldn't drag my feet another step. I took the money out and threw it away. But that didn't help me any, either, so I went back, found the money, and started back this way to put that money back where I got it. I never knew that anything I helped myself to would grow so heavy, but back I had to come with that money. I can't understand what made me feel that way about a little money. Maybe it was"

"Conscience," suggested Dick promptly.

"Conscience?" repeated Tag wonderingly. "What's that? I know I've heard that word somewhere—some time."

Dick was wondering how to make sure of Tag this time. If he shouted to his friends in camp Prescott felt positive that Tag would leap up, knock him down and glide away. Give him a start of a hundred yards in these forests, and Tag Mosher, otherwise young Page, was quite certain to distance and elude all pursuit.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

As a last resort the high school boy decided to make one more effort to use persuasion.

"Tag" he urged, "be a real fellow. Show some grit, and purpose. No matter what you've done, or what you haven't done, show that you've sand enough to get up and walk back into camp with me—to meet your father. Come, get up and come along, like a real fellow with real grit, won't you?"

"Get up?" echoed Tag bitterly. "If I could, do you suppose I'd be lying here talking to you now?"

"Are you hurt?" cried Dick.

"If I hadn't been, do you suppose I'd have stayed with you as long as I have?" mocked the other indignantly. "It all came of that money, too, and what you call 'conscience.' If I hadn't come back with the money I wouldn't have had that nasty tumble over the root, and my ankle would be as sound as ever."

"Do you mean that you can't walk?" Dick demanded.

"I can crawl, and that's all," Tag declared. "I was at the spring, getting a drink, when I heard you coming. Then I crawled back in here, but not fast enough to keep you from seeing something moving here. It was right over yonder that I fell and wrenched my ankle. I crawled over here so as to be near water until my foot got so that I could use it again."

"Hoo-hoo!" bellowed Prescott, through his hands. "Hoo-hoo the camp! Hoo-hoo!"

"That's right," jeered Tag. "Go in after the reward, when I can't help myself. Serves me right for taking money when I should have contented myself with my old game of stealing victuals only!"

"Hoo-hoo the camp!" repeated Prescott. "Hoo-hoo!"

"That you, Dick?" came in Darrin's voice.

"Yes; come here on the jump, Dave. And bring the others."

"Where?"

"At the spring."

"Say," remarked Tag shrewdly, "you oughtn't to call a whole crowd that way. There will be more to get a share in the reward, and you won't get as much for yourself."

"Oh, bother the reward!" spoke Prescott impatiently. "All I'm thinking of, Tag, is the bother you've given us, first and last."

"I suppose I always have been a trouble to folks," Tag assented glumly. "But I'll be game—now that I'm caught."

All the chums save Hazelton came on a run.

"Here's Tag, fellows," Dick hailed them. "He has hurt his ankle and I guess we'll have to carry him to camp."

"That'll be easy enough," declared broad shouldered Tom Reade. "I believe I can pick, him up alone."

Tom tried. The feat would have been possible, but it would not make for the comfort of the injured boy.

"You and I will make a queen's chair," suggested Dick. Then Dave, Greg and Dan lifted Tag to the seat thus formed.

"You'll find me heavy before you get me far," Tag informed them.

"Pshaw!" retorted Tom.

Greg, running ahead, informed the others in camp who was coming. The bearers were met by Mr. Page, Hibbert and Colquitt, running in the order named.

"Here's the boy you want, Mr. Page," called Dick Prescott. "But look out for his injured ankle, sir."

This last caution was necessary, for the older man, in his eagerness to embrace the lad whom he believed to be his son, almost crashed into him.

"So you're my son—my boy, Egbert!" cried the father.

"That's the fairy tale that has been shied at me a good many times lately," replied Tag gruffly.

Mr. Page fell back, in some astonishment, at this ungracious reception. Then, understanding, and remembering Tag's unhappy past, he patted the boy's shoulder.

"That's all right—all right, Egbert," declared the father. "Perhaps the news has come upon you too suddenly. But you and I will talk it over. It won't take us long to know each other, my boy."

As the party came into camp it was noted that Mrs. Bentley and the girls had withdrawn, returning, through delicacy, to their own camp. Hazelton, thus released from guard duty at the other camp, soon came running over.

But Dr. Bentley had slipped into the tent, quickly arranging one of the cots with the skill of the hospital worker.

"Bring the young man in here," called the physician, appearing in the doorway of the tent. "We'll soon find out how bad the injury is."

Tag was lowered down upon the blanket.

"Which foot is it?" asked Dr. Bentley.

"Left," replied Tag.

Dr. Bentley deftly removed the shoe, causing hardly more than a trace of pain. Tag insisted on raising himself on his elbow to look on. It was the first time he had ever been under a doctor's care.

Dick took one look at the wistful eyes of the father, as Mr. Page stood by the head of the cot, resting one hand on his supposed son's shoulder.

"Come outside, fellows," called Dick. "Doctor, we'll be outside if you want anything."

The onlookers in the tent started to go outside, except the father and the physician.

"Come back, Hibbert," called Mr. Page softly. "You've been at least a son to me during the last year. Now, remain and help me to get acquainted with my own son."

Tag was silent. He could take punishment, and Dr. Bentley was now hurting him quite a bit in his effort to get at the exact nature of the injury.

"Reade," called the physician, "start a fire in a hurry. Heat half a kettle of water for me as fast as you can. Prescott, run over to my camp and ask Mrs. Bentley for my emergency case, the two-quart bottle of bicarbonate of soda and a roll of four-inch gauze."

Dick sped toward the Bentley camp as though on wings. While Mrs. Bentley was gathering the things for him the girls crowded about, asking eager questions about Tag, or Egbert Page, as he might prove to be. But Dick delayed to talk only until Mrs. Bentley had placed the desired things in his hands. Then he sped back, in time to hear the physician saying:

"Only a sprain. A painful one, to be sure. But this young man may be moved in an automobile in an hour or two. By to-morrow morning he ought to be able to get about with the aid of a crutch."

"In jail is where I'll do my moving about," grunted Tag.

"No matter where it be, my boy," protested Mr. Page, "if they lock you up they'll have to take me, too. Besides, I have money, and bail is possible."

"Bail?" repeated Tag. "Would you go my bail, and trust me not to jump it?"

"The Page honor would never permit you to jump bail," replied the old man, with simple but positive belief in his tone.

Hardly had Dr. Bentley finished dressing and bandaging the ankle than a new arrival appeared. Deputy Valden had dropped in, alone, to discover whether there was any news.

"You may wait, deputy, and go with us," declared Mr. Page, as though the sheriff's officer were some subordinate of his. "We will go to the jail as soon as my son is rested and is comfortable enough to be moved."

"Humph! I like that!" jeered the deputy. "This boy is my prisoner, and I'll take him when I please. See here, Tag, I don't want you faking any injuries as a slick way to——"

"You get outside, my man!" broke in Detective Colquitt quietly, but he took hold of the deputy so forcibly that Valden was quickly on the outside of the tent.

"Now, you come along with me, my man," Colquitt continued, "and I'll tell you who's who. First of all, this boy is Mr. Page's son. Mr. Page can produce all kinds of money merely by signing a check. He is indignant with you, already, for maltreating his son when you had him under arrest at another time. Mr. Page may employ lawyers and bring proceedings to have you ousted from your job by the sheriff. You——"

Here their voices died out in the distance, but Valden went along willingly enough. When the pair returned the deputy seemed to have lost his swagger.

"Doc, you've been good to me," said Tag at last, "and now I'll tell you how I came to hurt my ankle. You know, of course, that I visited one of your shacks and helped myself to some of your kitchen stuff. While I was there I came across a queer little black bag. I opened it, and found a whole lot of queer little bottles. Medicines, I guess, though I don't know, for I never had any. Then I came across one little bottle that I couldn't see inside of. I took out the cork, and inside I found some paper rolled up and tucked away. Two twenties were what I found. Money was just what I needed, to buy a railway ticket with, so I slipped the money into a pocket. Then I started off, but, Doe, that money got so heavy—so awfully heavy——"

From there on Tag repeated the story he had told young Prescott. During the recital Dick had stepped into the tent.

"I knew you had my money, my boy," smiled Dr. Bentley, "but I didn't say anything about it."

"You didn't start off to put the officers on my track?" demanded Tag incredulously.

"Not I," laughed Dr. Bentley. "I had a different idea. I suspected you'd buy a railway ticket. This evening I had intended to drive, to a telegraph station and telegraph about until I found where and to what station a chap answering your description had bought a ticket. Then I would telegraph to the sheriff just where you were to be picked up as you left the train. I'll admit that I wasn't very anxious to turn you over to the law. What I wanted was to get on your trail, and then see you turned over to your father."

"You told me that Tag took a drug from one of your vials," Dick murmured, smiling.

"So he did," nodded the doctor. "Money is a drug in the market—in some places."

"What kind of places, sir?" Prescott inquired.

"Such places as the United States Treasury, for instance," laughed Dr. Bentley. "Or the National City Bank of New York."

Then turning to Mr. Page, the physician completed his explanation.

"Money is a strange thing perhaps, Mr. Page, to carry in a vial in a doctor's drug case. But sometimes, when I've been on the road, and a long way from home on the day's work, I've found that I needed money just when I least expected to want it. So, for some years, I've always had two twenty dollar bills tucked away in an opaque vial, where it would not be seen and invite theft. I never told anyone what I carried in that vial."

What Dr. Bentley did not explain, however, was that, generally, when he wanted extra money, it was for some charitable work the need of which became apparent when he was visiting the sick and needy. The generous physician had many "free patients."

Some two hours later, Tag, his father, Hibbert, Colquitt and Valden started for the county jail in the big Page car. On the way they stopped at the home of Farmer Leigh, to which Dr. Bentley had gone ahead of them.

"Mr. Leigh is conscious and able to be seen," the physician reported to Detective Colquitt. "Bring your prisoner inside at once."

Then there came a dramatic surprise. Farmer Leigh, when confronted by Tag, positively denied that Tag was the one who had assaulted him. Mr. Leigh, it will be remembered, was a newcomer in the neighborhood. He had never known Tag, but, after his injury, and before brain fever came on, the farmer had described his assailant, and that description had seemed to fit Tag Mosher to a dot. The real criminal, however, a young tramp some years older than Tag, was found later on, and punished according to law.

Dick Prescott was the only one of the high school boys on hand to see the clearing of Tag of the accusation against him. Dick had come along in Dr. Bentley's car.

"Prescott," whispered the physician, "slip downstairs. You'll find my car all ready. All you need to do is to press the starting button. Drive over to Porterville and get Mr. James, the district attorney. Never mind if you have to drag him out of bed and thrash him into submission—bring him here as quickly as possible. Don't fail, you understand."

With heart beating rapidly, but feeling wholly happy, young Prescott slipped downstairs and out of the house. A few moments later he was speeding over the lonely country road. At one o'clock in the morning he came back with District Attorney James, who heard Farmer Leigh's statement, reduced it to writing and had it signed under oath before many witnesses.

"Officer Valden," said the district attorney, "I authorize you to take your prisoner to Porterville, not to the jail, but to the Granite Hotel. As soon as court opens in the morning I will secure the formal discharge of your prisoner."

This was done. Dick, who returned to camp with Dr. Bentley just before daylight, did not see Tag released, but heard of it.

Proof came in rapidly after that to satisfy Mr. Page that "Tag Mosher" was his son Egbert. Best of all, even young Egbert himself was convinced.

Young Page underwent a speedy and complete reformation. Later he went to school to prepare for college. In time Egbert promises to be a strong man in his community and a force for good. Old Bill Mosher died soon after leaving jail.

Mr. Page tried hard to make Dick & Co. accept the offered reward of three thousand dollars, but neither the boys nor their parents would listen to any such transaction. Dick & Co. had done their duty in manly fashion, and that was reward enough.

Dr. Bentley's party broke camp a few days later. Dick & Co., however, remained for several weeks, training hard, putting on tan and muscle and fitting themselves to compete for places on the famous Gridley High School eleven in the coming fall.

Just what happened to our boys in the school year that followed will be found fully and thrillingly explained in the third volume of the "High School Boys Series," which is published under the title, "The High School Left End; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron."

The further vacation doings of these splendid American boys will be found in the next volume of this "High School Boys' Vacation Series." The book is published under the title, "The High School Boys' Fishing Trip; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness." Our readers will find it a story full of rousing incident, persistent adventure, delightful humor and absorbing human interest.

THE END

THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP

or

Dick & Co. in the Wilderness

CONTENTS

I. Tom Reade has a "Brand-New One"

II. Dodge and Bayless Hear Something

III. Dick & Co. Driven Up a Tree

IV. Stalling the Red Smattach

V. Bert Dodge Hears the Battle Cry

VI. Paid in Full—To Date

VII. The Box That Set Them Guessing

VIII. The Man With the Haunting Face

IX. The Start of a Bad Night

X. Powder Mills, or Just What!

XI. In a Fever "To Find Out"

XII. Dick Makes a Find

XIII. Perhaps Ten Thousand Years Old

XIV. More Mystery in the Air

XV. The Scream That Started a Race

XVI. The Camp Invaded and Captured

XVII. Dick Makes Fish Talk

XVIII. A Kettle of Hot Water for Someone

XIX. Bert Dodge Hears Frightful News

XX. A Frenzied Ride to Safety

XXI. Real News and "Punk Heroes"

XXII. Tom Tells the Big Secret

XXIII. "Four of Us are Pin-Heads!"

XXIV. Conclusion

I. TOM READE HAS A "BRAND-NEW ONE"

"Hello, Timmy!"

"'Lo, Reade."

"Warm night," observed Tom Reade, as he paused not far from the street corner to wipe his perspiring face and neck with his handkerchief.

"Middling warm," admitted Timmy Finbrink.

Yet the heat couldn't have made him extremely uncomfortable, for Tom Reade, amiable and budding senior in the Gridley High School, smiled good naturedly as he stood surveying as much as he could make out of the face of Timmy Finbrink in that dark stretch of the street.

Timmy was merely a prospective freshman, having been graduated a few days before from the North Grammar School in Gridley.

Tom, himself, had been graduated, three years before, from the fine old Central Grammar, whence, in his estimation, all the "regular" boys came. As a North Grammar boy, Timmy was to be regarded only with easygoing indifference. Yet a tale of woe quickly made Tom Reade his young fellow citizen's instant ally.

"Aren't you out pretty late, Timmy, for a boy who isn't even a regular high school freshman as yet?" inquired Reade, with another smile. "It's almost nine-thirty, you know."

"Don't I know?" wailed Timmy Finbrink, with something of a shiver. "It's getting later every minute, too, and I'm due for a trouncing when I do go in, so what's the odds?"

"Who's going to give you that trouncing?" Tom demanded.

"My father," replied Timmy Finbrink.

"What have you been doing?"

"Pop told me to be upstairs and in bed by nine o'clock, without fail," Timmy explained. "I came along just five minutes ago, and found that pop has the house planted for me. I can't slip in without his knowing it."

"Oho! So your father has the other members of the family stationed where they can see you, whichever way you go into the house?" asked Reade, with genuine interest in the unfortunate Timmy.

"Nope," explained Timmy, with another shiver. "Mother and sister are away visiting, and pop is all alone in the house."

"But he can't watch both the front and back doors at the same time," Reade suggested hopefully.

"Can't he do just that, though?" sputtered Timmy. "I've been scouting on tip-toe around the house to get the lay of the land. Pop is smoking his pipe, and has placed his chair so that he can see both the back and the front doors, for he has the room doors open right through. There isn't a ghost of a show to get in without being seen—and pop has the strap on a chair beside him!" finished Timmy, with an anticipatory shiver.

"Timmy, you're a fearfully slow boy," Tom drawled.

"What do you mean?"

"I can fix it so you can get into the house while your father is doing something else," Tom declared.

"Can you? How? Ring the front door bell, while I slip in at the back door?"

"Nothing as stale as that," scoffed Tom Reade. "That wouldn't call for any brains, you see. Come along and we'll look over the lay of the land. Cheer up, Timmy! You'll have plenty of chance to slip into the house, get upstairs, undressed and be in bed before your father has time to get over the surprise that's coming to him."

"What are you going to——" Timmy began breathlessly, but Tom interrupted him with:

"Keep quiet, and be ready to follow orders fast."

As they gained the front gate of the Finbrink yard Tom's keen eyes noted a brick lying on the grass. As that was just what he wanted, he pounced upon it.

"Now, Timmy, do you know where you can find a fairly good-sized bottle—without going into the house or taking the risk of being seen by your father?"

"Yes; there's one back of the house, with the ashes," Timmy answered eagerly.

"Go and get it, and don't make any noise."

Timmy disappeared in the darkness beyond, but soon returned carrying an empty quart bottle.

"Good enough!" whispered Reade, eyeing the bottle with cordial interest. Then he noiselessly approached the house, laying the brick on the grass under one of the front windows.

"Now, Timmy, you slip around to the back of the house," whispered the young schemer. "Just as soon as you hear a crash you watch your swiftest chance to slip into the house and upstairs to bed. Understand?"

"Sure! What you——"

"Don't stop to ask questions. Get on your mark and look out for your own best interests!"

Rejoicing in the possession of such a valuable ally as Tom Reade, Timmy vanished in the darkness. Tom Reade waited until he judged that the youngster must be in position near the back door. Now Tom gripped the bottle in his left hand, crouching over the brick.

With his felt hat in his right hand, Tom reached up, hitting a window pane smartly with the hat. At the same instant he brought the bottle crashing down over the brick.

As the bottle smashed against the brick Mr. Finbrink, in the dining room of the house, jumped up so quickly that he dropped his pipe.

"Some young rascal has smashed a front window!" he gasped, as he bolted into the parlor.

That was just what the noise had sounded like, and Tom Reade had intended that it should do so.

"I'll catch the young scamp!" gasped Mr. Finbrink, making a rush for the front door, which he pulled open.

Pausing an instant, he heard the sound of running feet in the distance.

"The young scoundrel went west, and he has a good start," grunted Mr. Finbrink, as he gave chase in that direction. "Hang it, I don't believe I can catch him!"

That guess proved well founded. After running a short distance Mr. Finbrink halted. He had not caught sight of the fugitive, nor could he now hear the running steps.

"I wonder how many panes of glass the young scamp broke?" muttered the irate Mr. Finbrink.

Retracing his steps quickly, Mr. Finbrink halted in front of his house, scanning the windows. Not a crack in a window pane could he discern, which was not remarkable, in view of the fact that no panes of glass had been broken.

"I need a lantern," Mr. Finbrink said to himself, and went inside the house. Soon afterwards he came out with a lighted lantern, and began his inspection. Three windows showed no sign of damage. Nor did the fourth. Then Mr. Finbrink chanced to glance down at the ground. There rested the brick, the fragments of the broken bottle lying around it.

"Say, what's that? What's that?" ejaculated Mr. Finbrink, much puzzled. Soon, however, he began to see light on the riddle. His lips parted in a grin; the grin became a chuckle.

"Humph! That goes ahead of anything I ever had the brains to think up when I was a boy," laughed the man. "That's a good one! It sounded for all the world as though someone had smashed one of my windows with a brick-bat. Ha, ha, ha! That's an all right one! I'd be willing to shake hands with the boy who put up that joke on me. How about my own Timmy, I wonder? No; Timmy wouldn't be smart enough for this one—but he may have smart friends. I'll look up that young hopeful of mine!"

With that purpose in view, the lantern still in his hand, Mr. Finbrink passed into the house and then up the back stairs. On the next floor he pushed open the door of a room, holding the lantern high as he scanned the bed.

There lay Master Timmy, covered only with a sheet, his head sunk in the depths of a pillow, eyes tightly closed, and breathing with almost mechanical rhythm.

"Oh, you're asleep, aren't you?" demanded his father, in a low, ironical voice. "How long have you been asleep, Tim?"

But Timmy's only answer was the beginning of a snore.

"Are you very tired, Timmy?" continued his father craftily.

Still no answer.

Mr. Finbrink held the lantern so that the rays shone fully against the boy's closed eyelids. Any youngster genuinely asleep would have opened his eyes instantly, and Mr. Finbrink knew it. But Timmy began to snore in earnest.

"I'm glad you sleep so soundly," went on Mr. Finbrink. "It shows, boy, what a clear conscience you have! No guile in your heart! But I wish you'd wake up and tell me who broke the bottle against the brick and made me sprint down the street."

Still young Master Timmy snored.

"In your sleeve you're laughing, to think how you fooled your father, aren't you?" murmured Mr. Finbrink. "Well, it was a good joke, and I admit it, young man, so I'm not going to trounce you this time. But I'd be glad if you'd wake up and tell me who put you up to that game."

Master Timmy, however, was disobliging enough to slumber on.

"All right, then," nodded the father. "I say again, it was a good joke. Good night!"

Only a little louder snore served as the son's answer. Mr. Finbrink went out, closed the door and his footsteps sounded down the hallway.

"Whew!" gasped Master Timmy, opening his eyes presently. "That was a mighty narrow squeak! But I got out of it this time. That Tom Reade is a sure enough wonder!"

Mr. Finbrink, however, had slipped back, catfooted, and was now outside the door, where he could hear the barely audible mutterings of his son and heir.

"So it was Tom Reade, eh?" murmured Mr. Finbrink, as he started for the stairs in earnest this time. "I might have guessed it was Tom Reade. He has genius enough for even greater things than that. But Timmy has certainly helped, at least, to earn a right not to be strapped this time." Then the father returned to his chair downstairs, to resume his interrupted smoke. Within the next half hour Mr. Finbrink chuckled many a time over the remembrance of the pranks of his boyhood days.

"But we had no Tom Reade in our crowd in those good old days," he repeated to himself several times. "If we had had a Tom Reade among us, I think we would have beaten any crowd of boys of to-day!"

Meanwhile Tom's love of mischief was speeding him into other experiences ere he reached his bed that night. Some of the consequences of his mischievous prank were to be immediate, others more remote.

"Humph! But that did sound just like a window breaking," Tom chuckled as he slowed down to a walk. "Whee! I'd like to show that one to Dick Prescott. I wonder if he is up yet?"

Whereupon Tom walked briskly over to the side street, just off Main Street, whereon stood the book store of Prescott, Senior, with the Prescotts' living rooms overhead.

"Good evening, Mr. Prescott. Good evening, Mrs. Prescott," was Tom's greeting as he walked into the store. "Is Dick up yet?"

"He went upstairs not more than two minutes ago," Mrs. Prescott replied. "He can't be asleep yet. Shall I call upstairs to see?"

"On second thought, perhaps not," Tom replied. "Thank you, just as much. But I've something new that I'd like to show Dick. Do you mind if I slip out around the back of the store and try a new trick on him? It won't hurt anyone; there'll be a crash of glass, but it won't break any good glass—merely a bottle."

"I think that perhaps our son needs a little enlivening," smiled Mr. Prescott.

"Thank you," answered Tom. "You won't be startled, will you, Mrs. Prescott?"

"I don't see how I can possibly be startled, when I've been so kindly warned," laughed Mrs. Prescott.

Then, as Reade darted from the store, Mrs. Prescott added, to her husband:

"I think the back of Tom Reade's head contains more pranks than that of any other boy I ever knew."

"I don't imagine our own son is any too far behind him," replied Mr. Prescott dryly.

A minute or two passed. Then there sounded under one of the store's rear windows a most realistic crash of glass. With it mingled another sound, not so easy to determine, followed by a loud yell and the noise of running feet. Now, out in the street the cry sounded:

"There he goes! Get him!"

"Throw him down and hold him!" yelled another voice.

"Mercy!" gasped Mrs. Prescott.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear," smiled Mr. Prescott. "It's only the natural aftermath of Tom Reade's newest startler."

Was it?

Dick Prescott, after yawning twice, and before starting to disrobe, had decided that his adjustable screen was not fixed in the window of his bedroom as securely as it should be. In endeavoring to fix it he found it necessary to remove the screen from the window. Hardly had he done so when, gazing down into the darkness, he saw a dimly visible figure flitting over the ground below.

"Who's that?" murmured Dick to himself. "What's up?"

Whoever the prowler was, he was flitting over to the ash cans set out by a neighbor. One can contained ashes only, the other contained various kinds of rubbish. It took the prowler but a moment to find an empty bottle in the second can. Then he came straight over toward the rear window of the store, which was situated directly under Dick's own window.

"There's some mischief afloat," murmured Dick, unable to recognize his chum in the darkness. "I can't get down in time to catch him, but I'll mark him so that I'll know him when I overtake him."

Tip-toeing over to his washstand, Dick quickly picked up the water pitcher. He returned to his window just as Tom crouched under the store window with a bottle in his left hand and his felt hat in his right.

Then Tom struck the harmless blow against the window, at the same time breaking the bottle.

Smash!

Splash!

"Gracious!" gasped Dick, believing that the store window had been broken.

A yell from Tom arose as the contents of the pitcher deluged him.

Reade was up and away like a shot, reaching the street only to cause a hue and cry to be started after him as he ran.

So swiftly had Tom moved, that by the time Dick Prescott reached the street both pursuers and pursued were a block away and going fast. Dick was about to join the chase when his father called after him:

"Dick! Dick! Come back here!"

"Yes, sir," replied young Prescott, halting, wheeling, then springing back. "But that scoundrel smashed the rear store window!"

"No, he didn't," laughed Mr. Prescott. "That was Tom Reade, and he was playing a trick on you—with our permission. Now he's being chased. Do you want to go out and aid that crowd in capturing him?"

"Of course I don't, sir," replied Dick, who knew full well that such a sturdy high school athlete as Tom Reade was in very little danger of being caught by any citizen runners to be found on the street at that time of night. "But what did Tom do, Dad?"

"I don't just know," admitted the bookseller. "Reade told us there would be a smash of glass, but that it would be harmless. He warned your mother, Dick, so that she wouldn't he startled when it came. Tom did the right thing in warning your mother. I wish all boys could realize that only cowards and fools go about frightening women."

"But something else happened," insisted Mrs. Prescott. "I wonder what it was?"

"Suppose we take a lantern and go out in the back yard and see," proposed Dick.

While Dick was finding the lantern the elder Prescott closed the front of the store, also drawing down the shades for the night.

Dick's mother followed him into the rear yard. The fragments of the bottle under one of the store windows told the whole story to one as experienced in jokes as Dick Prescott.

"But see how wet the ground is," Mrs. Prescott remarked after Dick had explained the trick.

"That was because I didn't recognize the joker, and emptied the contents of my water pitcher on him just as he broke the bottle," Dick smiled. "Poor old Tom. That was really a shame!"

"But why did you pour the water on him?" asked Mrs. Prescott.

"Because I felt sure that the prowler was up to some mischief, and I wanted to mark him for identification, mother," Dick explained. "If we had found a fellow on the street looking as though he had just come out of the river, we'd have known our man, wouldn't we? Poor Tom! I don't blame him for letting out that yell when that drenching splash hit him."

"I hope he didn't get caught by the men who started after him," sighed Mrs. Prescott.

"Don't worry about Tom, mother," urged Dick. "No one about here could catch him, unless he happened to be a member of the Gridley High School Eleven!"

But was it true that Tom Reade had escaped without disaster? That remained to be seen.

II. DODGE AND BAYLISS HEAR SOMETHING

"If we start to-morrow we must hustle all day long to-day," declared Dave Darrin.

"That's true," agreed Greg Holmes, as the two boys stood on a side street not far from Main Street in Gridley.

"I wish the rest of the fellows would hurry along," Dave went on impatiently.

"At all events, I wish Dick would hurry up, as he has charge of the arrangements," Greg made answer. "Oh, my! But I'm getting anxious to see the fish nibble."

"I thought you didn't care especially about fishing," Dave murmured, regarding his friend.

"Probably, as far as mere fishing goes, I don't care so very much," young Holmes assented. "But when fishing means weeks of outdoor life, free from the noise and dust of the town—then I'm simply wild about fishing as an excuse for getting away. Probably at the end of our fun we'll all be so sick of fish, from having had to eat so much of it, that any one of us will run away and hide when we suspect that the home folks are planning to send us on errands to a fish store. It would be all the same to me if we were going clamming, or hunting, or on any other kind of expedition, as long as it brought us to life under canvas and sleeping in the very place where pure, fresh air is made. Here comes Dick now!"

Young Prescott came swiftly up to his friends.

"Well, I think I've gotten about everything fixed," Dick announced.

"Tell us all the plans," urged Greg eagerly.

"What's the matter with waiting until all the other fellows show up?" Prescott inquired. "That will save me from having to go twice over the same ground. While we're waiting I'll tell you Tom Reade's latest one."

"A funny trick?" queried Greg.

"Needless question!" rebuked Dave Darrin. "Tell us about the latest one, Dick."

Thereupon the leader of Dick & Co. told of Tom's scheme for making people think one of their windows broken.

"Did it sound real?" Dave demanded.

"Did it?" inquired Dick. "It fooled me. I thought surely that our rear store window had been smashed to pieces. The sound is as natural as any joker could wish. But I haven't told you the other half of the story."

Thereupon Dick told about the pitcher of water dumped so unerringly on Tom, and of Reade's flight with the crowd pursuing him.

"I'd like to have been near enough to hear just what Tom said when the water struck him," laughed Darrin.

"Did the people running after him catch him?" asked Greg.

"I don't believe so," Dick Prescott smiled. "When Tom gets under way in earnest, his middle name, as you may have observed, is Double Speed—and then a bit more."

"Who's talking about me?" gruffly demanded Reade, coming up behind the group. "Dick, you old rascal! That was a mean trick you played upon me when you hurled that water down on me last night! But say, didn't it sound just like a three dollar pane of glass going to pieces?"

"It certainly did," laughed Prescott. "And by the way, Tom, did the water, when it struck, make you think at all about what you've read of Niagara Falls?"

"Hang you!" grumbled Tom, shaking a fist. "Why did you pour the wet stuff on me like that?"

"Because I was fooled myself," Dick promptly rejoined. "I thought some rascal was plotting mischief to the store. I wanted to mark that rascal with a suit of wet clothes, then run down in the street and collar him with his wet clothes on as a marker. But Dad called me back, and so I missed you. I heard the crowd after you, however. Did you get caught, Tom?"

Reade's answer was something of a growl.

"What happened between you and the crowd?" pressed Darrin, scenting some news from Reade's mysterious, half-sulky manner.

"Never you mind," Tom growled.

"Don't tell us," Dick urged. "We can guess a few things, anyway. You've a bruised spot over your left cheek bone that looks like the mark of a punch on the face."

"Go ahead and tell us what happened, Tom," urged Greg.

Reade only scowled.

"Anyway, you must have avenged yourself," Dick smiled. "Just look at the way the knuckles of your right hand are skinned. You certainly hit someone hard."

Tom flushed quickly as he glanced at the knuckles in question, then thrust his right hand into his pocket with an air of indifference.

"Be a good fellow and tell us the finish of the adventure," begged Darrin.

"Certainly," grinned Reade. "The end of my adventure was——"

"Yes, yes!" pressed Greg, as Tom hesitated.

"The end of the adventure came," Tom continued maliciously, "when I turned out the gas in my little room and hopped into bed. I slept like a top, thank you."

"Now, now, now!" Dick warned him. "Thomas, you're hiding something from us!"

"If I am, it's my own business, and I've a right to hide it," retorted Tom, smiling once more, though still uncommunicative.

At this moment Hazelton and Dan Dalzell, otherwise known as Danny Grin, came up. They, too, had to hear all about the bottle-breaking trick.

"How did you ever come to think of a thing like that, Tom?" asked Harry Hazelton.

"I thought of it before I tried it out at Dick's," Reade rejoined, and explained how he had helped Timmy Finbrink out of a scrape.

"What did you say the fellow's name is, Tom?" Dick asked.

"His name is Timmy Finbrink," Reade rejoined, "and he looks the part. Just one glance at Timmy, and you know that he's all that the name implies."

Then followed, for the benefit of the two latest arrivals, the story of Tom's attempt in the rear of the Prescott bookstore.

Harry and Dalzell duly admired the bruise on Tom's face.

"Now, be a gentleman, Tom," urged Harry mischievously, "and let us have a good, satisfying look at your skinned knuckles."

"Umph!" grunted Reade.

"Or, at least," pursued Harry relentlessly, "tell us just what it was into which you ran to get such a mark on your face."

"Umph!" retorted Reade once more. "Danny, in the name of mercy, take that grin of yours around the corner and lose it!"

"I'll try," promised Dan, "provided you'll tell us who caught you last night, and why he punched your face."

But Tom, knowing that he had them all wild with curiosity, refused to reveal the secret.

"Now, let's get back to the big fishing trip," begged Greg Holmes. "Dick, what's the plan?"

"We start to-morrow," Prescott rejoined.

"Humph!" grunted Holmes. "We knew that all along. What we want are the particulars in detail."

"In the next place, then," Dick replied, "we shall devote a good deal of our time, while away, to the pleasurable excitement of fishing."

"Perhaps you won't be able to get away," Greg retorted, "if you go on stringing us in that fashion. I warn you that we're becoming impatient."

"That's right," nodded Dave Darrin. "Get down to actual particulars, Dick."

"Well, then," Prescott resumed, "we meet at the same old grocery store in the morning. There we stock up with food."

"Are we going to hire a horse and wagon for transporting our tent, cots, bedding and food?" Dan asked.

"No," Dick replied. "I've been thinking that over, and the funds won't stand it. So I've rented a push cart for two dollars. We can keep it as long as we need it. The tent, folding cots, blankets, pillows and kitchen utensils will go on the cart."

"Do we have to push that cart?" demanded Danny Grin, looking displeased.

"We do, if we want the cart to go along with us," Dick admitted.

Danny Grin groaned dismally as he remarked:

"That one detail of the arrangements just about spoils all the pleasure of the trip, then."

"No, it won't," Dick reported promptly. "I've looked into that. The wheels are well greased—the axles, I mean. I've loaded the cart with more weight than we shall put on it, and it pushes along very easily. If we come to a bad stretch of road, then two fellows can manage the cart at a time. The scheme saves us a lot of expense, fellows."

"Will all the food go on the cart, tool" asked Dave.

"Each one of us can carry some of the food," Dick replied.

Then his eye, roving from face to face, took in the fact that his chums were not impressed with the proposed method of transportation.

"Cheer up, fellows," he begged. "You'll find that it will be pretty easy, after all."

"I'd rather believe you, Dick, than have it proved to me," was Tom Reade's dejected answer. "I thought we were going away for pleasure and rest, but I suppose we can work our way if we have to."

None of these high school boys are strangers to our readers. Everyone remembers the first really public appearance of Dick & Co., as set forth in the first volume of the "Grammar School Boys Series." Then we met them again in the first volume of the "High School Boys Series," entitled, "The High School Freshmen." That stormy first year of high school life was one that Dick & Co. could never forget. In the second volume, "The High School Pitcher," we found Dick & Co. actively engaged in athletics, though in their sophomore year they did not attempt to make the eleven, but waited until the spring to try for the baseball nine. In the third volume, "The High School Left End," Dick & Co. were shown in their struggles to make the eleven, against some clever candidates, and also in the face of bitter opposition from a certain clique of high school boys who considered themselves to be of better social standing than Dick and his chosen comrades.

In the "High School Boys' Vacation Series" our readers have followed Dick & Co. through their summer pleasures and sports. In the first volume of this present series, "The High School Boys' Canoe Club," the adventures are described that fell to the lot of Prescott, Darrin, Reade and the others in the summer following their freshman high school year. In the second volume, "The High School Boys In Summer Camp," our readers found an absorbing narrative of the startling doings of Dick & Co. in the summer following their sophomore year. And now, in this present volume, we at last come upon our young friends at the beginning of their vacation season after the completion of their junior year, with its football victories. Now they are budding seniors, ready to enter the final, graduating class of Gridley High School in the coming autumn.

As Dick looked into the faces of his chums he laughed.

"So you don't like the push-cart idea, eh?" he demanded. "All right; if you fellows would rather loaf than eat——"

"We can hire a horse, and still have money enough left to eat," protested Tom. "See here, Dick, although fishing is great fun while it lasts, we shan't be out all summer on a fishing trip. We don't need such a lot of money for, say, only a two or three weeks' trip."

"Yes; I think two or three weeks will see us in from our fishing trip," Prescott admitted. "But if we do come back early, fellows, then we shall need some other kind of a trip for August, won't we?"

"Say, that's right!" cried Dave Darrin, his eyes glistening. "Fellows, we are troubled with wooden heads. While we've been thinking of nothing but a fishing trip in July, Dick has actually had the brains to figure out that we might like to go away on some other kind of outing in August."

"Such an idea did occur to me," replied Dick.

"What's the scheme for August, Dick?" demanded Greg eagerly.

"Out with it!" insisted Hazelton.

Dick shook his head.

"Now, don't be mean," insisted Danny Grin. "Dick, you owe it to us, almost, to let us get a little look at the machinery that's moving in the back of your head."

"I haven't an August plan—at least, not one that is clear enough for me to submit it and put it to vote before you," Dick went on. "Fellows, let's set about this present fishing trip, for this month, and then, while we're away, talk up the proper scheme for August. Whatever we do in the way of fun, next month, will be sure to be better planned if we wait a little before talking it over."

"All right, then," agreed Tom Reade with a sigh. "But I warn you, Dick, and all you fellows, that if Prescott is too stingy with news about his August plan, I shall put forth one of my own."

"What's your August plan, Tom?" demanded Greg.

"I'm not going to tell you—yet," Reade rejoined, shaking his head mysteriously.

"There are a lot of things that you're not telling us," Dave reminded him. "Just for one little thing, you're not telling us what happened to you last night after you let a lot of strange men chase you out of Dick's street."

"They didn't chase me off the street!" declared Tom indignantly.

"Then what did happen?" quizzed Danny Grin.

"They all tried to beat me in a foot race," Tom declared, "and I put it all over them!"

"Yet someone must have passed you, or got in front of you," teased Greg. "Look at the bruise on your face, and your knuckles."

"Oh, that happened when——" began Tom, then paused abruptly.

"Yes, yes," pressed Danny Grin. "Tell us about it."

"All right," agreed Tom, "I will. You see, when I got home and into bed, I had a sort of nightmare. Just suppose, for instance, that the mark on my face is where the nightmare kicked me and that I skinned my knuckles against the bedstead when I tried to jump over the bed to return the nightmare's kick."

"Tom Reade," called Dave sternly, "hold up your right hand!"

"Look out, Darry! You're not going to ask Tom to swear to the truth of a yarn like that, are you?" asked Dick anxiously.

"You may let your hand down again, young man," decided Dave, and Tom, as his hand reached his side, heaved a sigh expressive of great relief.

"Now, have you fellows got your tackle all ready?" Dick went on. "Remember the different things in the way of tackle that each of us was to bring."

The others assured their leader that the matter of tackle had been attended to.

"Then your bedding and your clothing are the only other matters to be considered," Dick went on, "as we're to travel light."

"As we don't take a horse along," suggested Tom, "then I take it that we are not going to carry any planking for a tent floor."

"We can't very well do that," Dick answered him. "Fellows, the real thing for us to do, on this trip, is to learn how to move fast and light. We must learn how to do without many things and yet have just as good a time."

"I think that's good sense," murmured Dave. "At the same time, I'll admit, at first blush, that I don't care particularly for the motion of the push cart. That means a lot of extra work for us, if we change camping sites often."

"Then let's put it to a vote whether to hire a horse and wagon, and give up the idea of an August trip," proposed Dick.

"No need whatever of taking any vote," broke in Tom. "All of us want that August trip, too, and we know that we haven't purses as big as a bank's vault."

And that opinion prevailed, without dissent.

"Greg's house ought to be the best place to keep the push cart over night," Dick continued. "I'll have the cart there at four this afternoon. Suppose you fellows meet us there, with your bedding and clothing for the trip?"

This also was agreed upon.

While the boys stood there chatting not one of them suspected how eagerly they were being watched by two pairs of eyes.

On the same side of the street, only a door below them, was an unrented cottage. One of the windows of this cottage, upstairs, was open, though closed blinds concealed the fact. Between these blinds peered two young men.

That cottage was the property of Mr. Dodge, vice-president of one of Gridley's banks.

Readers of "The High School Left End" have good reason to remember the banker's son, Bert Dodge. He and his friend, Bayliss, also the scion of a wealthy family, had been members of the notorious "sorehead" group in the last year's football squad at Gridley High School.

As our readers well remember, Dodge and Bayliss had carried their opposition to Dick & Co. to such dishonorable extent that they had been given the "silence" by the boys and girls attending the Gridley High School.

Dodge and Bayliss had thereupon left home to attend a private school, and they had gone away from Gridley with bitter hatred of Dick & Co. rankling in their hearts.

Just at this present moment Dodge and Bayliss were back in the home town. Deeply and properly humiliated by the contempt with which they were regarded in Gridley, these two "soreheads" had concealed from all but members of their families the fact that they were in town.

Bert had secured from his father the keys of the cottage. Two cots had been placed in a front room. Late the night before Dodge had brought food supplies to the cottage. Here the two youngsters were to remain secretly for a few days until Bayliss received from his family, then abroad, the money needed for his summer outing. What the elder Dodge did not know or even suspect, was that his son and Bayliss had returned with some half-formed plans of paying back old scores against Dick & Co.

"I knew this cottage was the place for us," Bert whispered. "As I told you, Bayliss, this corner is a favorite meeting place for Prescott and his fellow muckers."

"From what I hear, they're going to leave town for a few weeks," replied Bayliss.

"Yes; going out into the wilds on some sort of fishing jaunt."

"I wish we knew their plans better than we do," murmured Bayliss.

"Don't believe they know 'em themselves any too well," sneered Bert Dodge. "However, we don't need to know where they're going. We can follow 'em, can't we?"

"Yes; and get jolly well thumped for our pains, maybe," retorted Bayliss dryly.

"Well, if you're afraid, we'll let 'em depart in peace," mocked Bert.

"Who's afraid?" demanded Bayliss irritably.

"I hope you're not," retorted Bert Dodge.

"If you're not afraid—if you're as thoroughly game as I am—then we'll have some satisfaction out of those fellows."

"Lead me to it!" ordered Bayliss hotly.

"I will, to-morrow morning," promised Bert Dodge. "If you stick to me, we'll make those muckers sorry they ever knew us!"

"We must be under way by nine o'clock," the listeners heard Dick say. "We go west, over Main Street. We must start promptly, for we have sixteen miles to go to our first camp at the second lake in the Cheney Forest."

"Do you hear that?" whispered Bert. "The idiots have given us their full route! We can leave at four in the morning, and won't have to follow 'em at all. We can be there ahead of time, and have all the lines laid."

"Somehow," sounded Dave Darrin's voice, "I have a hunch, fellows, that we're going to have the finest time we ever had in our lives."

"We would have," sighed Tom Reade, "if it weren't for that push cart."

"At four o'clock this afternoon, then, and be prompt," called Dick, preparing to leave the others.

"Wait a moment," urged Dave.

"What's the matter?" inquired Dick, halting.

"Tom's just on the point of telling us what really happened to him last night," smiled Darry.

"Humph!" grunted Reade, walking briskly away.

"I can tell what's going to happen to 'em all on some other nights," whispered Bert Dodge in his friend's ear.

"To get square with those muckers, who drove us out of Gridley High School and out of town is my only excuse for living at present," sniffed Bayliss.

III. DICK & CO. DRIVEN UP A TREE

"Dick!"

"Yes?" replied Prescott, turning and looking back at Tom, whose turn it now was to furnish motive power to the loaded cart.

"How far did you say it was from Gridley to the second lake?" asked Reade.

"Sixteen miles."

"I've pushed the cart more than that far already," grunted Tom. "I'm willing to wager that the lake is more than a hundred and twenty miles from Gridley."

"Suppose it is," scoffed Dave, falling back beside the cart "Tom, just think of the fine training your back muscles are getting out of this work!"

"I'll tell you all about that, Darry," grumbled Reade, "when you've had your turn for ten minutes. How much longer does my turn run, Dick?"

"Five minutes," replied Prescott, after glancing at his watch. "Are you going to be able to hold out that long?"

"Yes; if I live that long," sighed Tom.

Dick and Hazelton had each taken their fifteen minute turns at pushing the cart. The boys had already put some distance between themselves and Gridley. Dick & Co. were tramping down a well-shaded road bounded by prosperous-looking farms. Two miles further on the boys would branch off through a long stretch of woods where the road was rougher. Here two youngsters would be needed for the work, one pushing, while the other hauled on a rope made fast to the front of the cart.

Five of the boys were well laden with miscellaneous packages of food. Tom, on account of pushing the cart, had been permitted to place his load on the already well-packed cart.

"Time's up," called Dick. "Dave to the bat."

Smiling, Darry packed his own parcels in the cart.

"Whew! But it's good to get away from that thing," grunted Reade, mopping his forehead, as he stalked on ahead.

"Here, you, Tom!" called Danny Grin. "Take your personal pack off the cart and tote it like the rest of us."

Reade turned a comically scowling face to Dalzell.

"Danny," he demanded rebukingly, "why couldn't you hold your tongue?"

"Because, when I'm working hard, I don't like to see you shirk," replied Dalzell with a complacent grin.

"But consider Darry," urged Reade. "Note how strong, lithe and supple he is. Boy, he is much better fitted for pushing my personal pack on the cart than I am for carrying it."

"Stick a pin in the chat, Tom," advised Darrin briefly, "and take your truck off the cart. I want to begin enjoying myself."

"I'd carry twice as much as I have to, just for the sheer joy of hearing you kick like a Texas maverick by the time you've had the cart handles for two minutes," laughed Tom, as he took his own parcels off the cart. "Now, David, little giant, let us see you buckle down to your task—like a real or imitation man!"

Darry braced himself, gave a hitch, then started forward briskly.

"Get out of the way, you loiterers!" called Dave, overtaking Tom and Greg and shoving the front end of the cart against them. "Don't block the road!"

"That's what comes of hitching an express engine to a freight load," grunted Reade, as he made for the side of the road, brushing his clothes.

There was bound to be a lot of "kicking" over the work of handling the push cart, but Dick & Co. were in high spirits this hot July morning.

Weeks before, when first planning this trip, all had begun to "save up" toward outfits of khaki, leggings and all, and blue flannel shirts. These khaki clothes made the most serviceable of all camping costumes.

"I begin to feel like a soldier," laughed Dick contentedly.

"So do I," agreed Tom Reade. "I feel like a poor dub of a soldier who has been sent to march across a continent on the line of the equator. I believe eggs would cook in any of my pockets!"

"Cut out all the grumbling and the discomfort talk," warned Dave Darrin.

"Well, I don't know that I need to grumble, if you can feel contented behind that old cart," laughed Reade. "How does it go, Darry?"

"I haven't begun to notice, as yet," replied Dave coolly.

Tom eyed him suspiciously.

"Darry," he remarked presently, "you're talented."

"In what way?" Dave inquired.

"You're one of the most talented fibbers I ever encountered. You've been pushing that cart all of four minutes, and you pretend that you don't notice the work."

"I expected to work when I left home," Darrin informed him. "If I hadn't felt that I could endure a little fatigue, then I'd have remained at home and looked for a job sleeping in a mattress factory's show-room."

Tom subsided after that. Dave's fifteen minutes were up presently, but he declined to accept relief at the push cart until they reached the point where their road branched off on to the rougher highway. Now, Greg and Hazelton took the cart, Greg at the handles, Hazelton pulling ahead on the rope.

Thus they went along, for some five minutes, when Dick, who was in the lead, reached a small covered bridge over a noisy, rushing creek.

Just as Dick gained the entrance to the bridge his gaze fell upon a large white sheet of paper tacked there. The word "Notice," written in printing characters, stared him in the face.

Dick read, then called back quietly:

"Halt! Here's something we've got to look into at once."

The cart handlers willingly enough dropped their burden. All hands crowded forward to read what was written underneath on the sheet of paper. It ran thus:

"All passers-by are cautioned that a mad dog, frothing at the mouth, has passed this way, going west. Officers have gone in pursuit of the animal, but passers-by may encounter the dog before the officers do. The dog is a huge English mastiff, without collar. Turn back unless armed!"

"Fine and cheery!" exclaimed Tom Reade, looking rather startled despite his light comment.

"And, just as it happens, this is the only road in the country that we want to use just at present," commented Dick Prescott.

"Shall we go ahead, keeping a sharp lookout?" asked Dave.

"I don't know," Dick muttered. "We'll have to think that over a bit."

"There are six of us, and we can cut good, stout clubs before we proceed farther," suggested Greg Holmes.

"Yes, and probably, if attacked, we could finish the dog," Dick went on. "Yet, most likely, before we did kill the brute, he'd have bitten at least one of us."

"I'll go on, if the rest of you fellows want to," observed Danny Grin. "At the same time, it looks like taking a big chance, doesn't it?"

"It's taking a chance, of course," Dick admitted. "The dog may be running yet, and we might never get within ten, or even twenty, miles of him. Or, the officers may have caught and killed the brute by this time. Or, the mastiff might bound at us from the woods at any moment now."

"Whether we go back or keep on, we're fairly likely to meet the mad dog," suggested Tom. "Mr. Chairman, I rise to move, sir, that we cut clubs at once, and do the rest of our talking afterwards!"

"The motion is seconded and carried," called Dick, darting into the woods. "Come on and find the clubs."

Less than forty seconds afterwards each of the six boys was cutting a stout sapling, which he forthwith trimmed.

"I believe I could kill anything but an ox with this," observed Reade, eyeing his bludgeon.

"Look out!" called Danny Grin, as if in alarm.

In a twinkling Tom dropped his club, dashed at a young oak tree and began to climb, thinking that the dog had suddenly appeared.

"Stop that nonsense, Dan—and everyone of you!" called Dick sharply. "Let no one knowingly give any false alarms, or we might disregard a real warning when it comes."

Tom sheepishly dropped to the ground, picked up his cudgel, then gazed at Dalzell with a look that had "daggers" in it.

"I'll owe you one for that, Danny Grin," Reade remarked, "and I'm always careful about paying my debts."

"Now that we have our clubs," suggested Dick, "let's get back to the road and discuss what we're going to do."

"Surely," hinted Dave, "we can find some other road and keep on our way."

"Undoubtedly," Greg nodded. "But the mad dog might cross through the woods and be found waiting for us on that other road. Or, he may now be headed for the second lake, or even be there now."

"Let's vote on what we're going to do," urged Hazelton. "Dick, what do you say?"

"I don't know what to say," their young leader answered. "I don't like to see our party cheated out of our vacation. Neither do I care to take too many chances of having our vacation changed into a tragedy. I've never had hydrophobia, but I've a strong notion that it wouldn't be pleasant. I know just how you fellows feel. You hate to lose your fun."

"We do hate to lose our fun," agreed Darry.

"And yet you don't want to have an encounter with a dog that has hydrophobia."

"We don't," approved Tom Reade. "Dick, you have a truly wonderful intellect when it comes to successful guessing."

"There's a cloud of dust up the road to the west," discovered Greg Holmes.

In an instant all eyes were turned that way.

"Can that be the dog?" asked Darry. "Something is traveling this way and stirring up a lot of dust."

Whatever the moving object was, it appeared to be half a mile away up the straight, dust-covered road.

"Until we find out what it is," Dick suggested, "I believe that tree climbing will prove healthful exercise."

Quickly they moved the push cart a little to one side of the road. Then they ran for trees, but every member of Dick & Co. retained his hold on his bludgeon.

The dust cloud was coming nearer. From the elevation of his perch in a tree Dick soon discovered and announced:

"It's a horse and wagon coming this way."

"Maybe it's the officers returning from the hunt," suggested Reade, who was on a lower limb of the next tree.

"There's only one man in the wagon, and he's whipping up the horse," Dick announced.

"There are good enough reasons for the man wanting his horse to hurry," chuckled Danny.

"Maybe the dog is in pursuit now," hinted Darrin.

Dick, who had the best view of the road to the westward, peered carefully.

"I don't see anything to suggest a pursuing dog," Prescott made answer. "If the dog is near, he must be running under the trees along the side of the road."

Greg climbed up beside his leader.

"Why, that man has stopped whipping the horse," young Holmes declared. "And is lighting his pipe. That doesn't look as though he were very much scared about anything."

"We'll stay where we are until we've talked with the man," Dick decided.

Just before reaching the other end of the covered bridge the driver, a farmer, and with what looked like a light load of farm produce in the body of the wagon, slowed his horse down to a walk, at which gait he drove over the bridge. Then, sighting the boys up in the trees, and each with a club, he reined up.

"Hello, boys!" he called drawlingly. "Who's been a-chasing you? What scared you?"

"Read that notice, sir, tacked up at the bridge entrance," urged Dick.

Alighting, and drawing a pair of spectacles from a vest pocket, the farmer complied.

"Mad dog, eh?" he drawled. "Sho!"

"Did you see anything of the brute?" called Darry.

"No; I didn't," answered the farmer. "Don't believe there is any mad dog along the way, either. I've reined up and talked with neighbors during the last hour and a half along the way. They didn't mention nothin' 'bout any peevish dogs. Now, it stands to reason that the officers would have stopped and warned folks along the road, don't it? And the neighbors would have passed the gossip with me, wouldn't they?"

"Didn't you see any officers coming from this way?" asked Dick.

"Nary one," rejoined the farmer. "Only fellers that passed me, coming from this direction, was two young dudes—I sh'd say about your ages. They was in a high-toned speed wagon——"

"Automobile?" asked Reade.

"Said so, didn't I?" drawled the farmer. "Them dudes looked mighty tickled about something. They was laughin' a whole lot and looked mighty well pleased with themselves. Do you reckon they was any friends of your'n, trying to have fun with you?"

"I can't recall any friends who would try to put up such a pleasant surprise for us," said Dick dryly, as he slipped down to the ground. "What did the fellows in the automobile look like, sir?"

That farmer possessed well-developed powers of observation, as was proved by the minute descriptions he gave of the two young men.

Dick's chums, who had now joined him at the roadside, looked puzzled. Then light dawned in Tom's eyes.

"Jupiter!" cried Reade. "If it weren't that they're not in this part of the country, I'd say that the pair were Dodge and Bayliss!"

"How do you know they're not in this part of the country?" asked Prescott dryly. Then, of the farmer, he further inquired:

"What kind of a car were they driving, sir?"

"A red Smattach, last year's model," answered the man.

"That's just what the Dodge automobile runabout is, and Smattach cars are not common in this section," muttered Prescott. Then he went over to take a keener look at the written notice on the sheet of white paper.

"This looks like disguised handwriting; it's backhanded," Dick mused aloud. "But I notice one thing peculiar. Who makes a funny little quirl at the beginning of a letter 'm,' such as you see in this writing?"

"Bert Dodge!" flashed Dave Darrin, an indignant light flashing in his eyes. "So we're six simpletons, held up by his shady tricks, are we? If Bert Dodge is anywhere ahead of us on the road, then I hope we have the good luck to meet him under conditions where he can't jam on the speed and get away from us!"

"Joke on you all, is it?" asked the farmer, grinning quizzically.

"It looks like it," admitted Dick sheepishly. "You're sure that none of the folks west of here heard anything of a mad dog, are you?"

"Pretty sure," nodded the farmer.

"Then this notice isn't really needed up here," replied Dick, carefully pulling the tacks, after which he folded the paper and tucked it in one of his pockets. "We're mightily obliged to you, sir."

"Oh, you're welcome," grinned the farmer, as he gathered up the reins over his horse. "I've got to be getting along. I'm late in Gridley now."

"If that man is too talkative in Gridley, folks will hear how we got sold," yawned Tom, gazing after the farm wagon. "Then—my! Won't folks be laughing at us?"

"It's a mean trick," cried Dave indignantly. "I wish I had that Dodge fellow here, right now! I believe that I'm master of enough English to convey to him an idea of just what I think of him!"

"I wouldn't waste any of my carefully acquired English on him," growled Tom Reade.

"What would you do—skin your other knuckles?" inquired Danny Grin innocently.

"We're wasting too much time punishing a fellow who isn't here," Dick broke in. "Let's get forward. After another mile Dalzell and I will take the cart and get it over some of the ground. Now, forward, march!"

It was noticed that Dave Darrin walked with clenched-fists. Tom took long strides that carried him in advance of the others. Dick Prescott was mostly silent, yet in his eyes there was a steady light, and a grim look about his mouth, that bespoke the possibility of some inconvenience to Bert Dodge and his friend, should that pair fall into the hands of Dick & Co. within the next hour.

At noon Dick & Co. halted. Under the shade of a group of trees, close to a roadside spring, they built two small fires. Over one they made coffee; over the other, they fried bacon and eggs. This, with bread, constituted the meal. A brief rest, then on they went once more.

It was toward five o'clock when Dick and Tom, who knew the road from having tramped over it before, announced that they were less than half a mile from the point where they would turn in to go to the second lake.

At this time Greg and Dan were managing the push cart. Tom and Dick strode on ahead, watching for the first sign of the path that should lead down to their intended camp site.

Suddenly, however, Prescott seized Reade by the arm, halting him.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom.

"Sh!—" Dick piloted his friend in behind a line of bushes, then went cautiously ahead.

"Look over there!" whispered Dick.

Tom Reade gave a start when he found himself gazing at a red runabout that stood just off the road and apparently deserted.

"Humph! That's a Smattach, too," declared Tom. "It must be the Dodge car. Bert and Bayliss must be somewhere about."

Dick stood surveying the car with speculative eyes.

"I know what you're thinking about," Tom whispered. "Wait; I'll go back and halt the fellows and bring Dave forward with me."

In a few moments this had been done. Darry gazed at the red Smattach with gleaming eyes.

"This is surely our chance!" he muttered. "Now, what can we do?"

All three were silent for a few moments. Then Tom Reade smote his thigh with one hand.

"I have it," he muttered excitedly.

"Then don't be stingy with your secret," urged Dave. "Out with at least a part of it."

For some moments Dick, Dave and Tom remained engaged in a rapid interchange of whispers, all the time glancing about them.

IV. STALLING THE RED "SMATTACH"

"That's the very thing!" muttered Tom Reade at last.

"It can't get us into any scrape with the law, can it?" queried Dave Darrin, with almost unwonted caution.

"I don't see how it can," smiled Dick Prescott. "I'm no lawyer, but I can't see how our trick, the way we intend to play it, can be called a breach of the law."

"Let's not lose any time with the game," urged Reade. "Let's get in and do it before Dodge and Bayliss come back. I wonder where they are, anyway?"

"I don't care where they are," said Dave, "as long as they keep away from here until we're through with what we intend to do."

From its place in the runabout car Tom drew forth a wheel-jack. This he and Dave fitted under an axle, raising the wheel half aft inch off the ground. Dick rapidly remove the tire from that front wheel.

By the time he had finished Tom ran with the jack around to the other front wheel, removing the tire from it also.

As the red runabout carried no extra tires the little car was now hopelessly stalled until relief was brought to the scene.

"Now, I'll slip back and bring the fellows on," Dick whispered. "Tom, you take Dave down to the camp site. I'll be right along with the other fellows."

Tom and Dave started along the forest path, each carrying a tire slung over one shoulder.

Dick, darting back, brought up the other fellows. All took a gleeful look at the red Smattach as they passed, then hurried on.

Down to a level bit of ground at the lakeside Dick led the last of his friends. Tom and Dave were already there, the two pneumatic tires standing against the trunk o a tree.

Dick's first move was to take a rope from the cart. This, after being passed through the rubber tires, was tied between two trees, clothesline fashion.

"Now, let's rustle all the stuff off the cart," urged Dick. "Be quick about it. We want the tent up in good shape before darkness falls."

It is not much of a trick to raise a tent twelve feet by twenty, when there are six pairs of hands to do it. The two centre poles were adjusted to the ridge-pole, and all three were pushed in under the canvas.

"Up with her," called Dick.

As the tent was raised, Tom and Greg were left holding the centre poles in place. With a sledge Dick drove a corner stake, and a guy-rope was made fast to it. One after another the remaining corner stakes were quickly driven and the ropes made fast. The tent would now stand by itself.

Dick and Dave, Tom and Greg now attended to two stakes at a time, making the other guy-ropes fast.

"Danny, you may set in all the wall-pegs," said Dick, standing back to survey the really neat job.

"I've been thinking——" began Dalzell.

"Then let Hazelton do the wall-pegging," retorted Dick tersely.

"I've been thinking——" Dalzell went on, "that it would be awfully funny, wouldn't it, if that red Smattach belonged, not to Dodge, but to some fellow we've never seen before?"

"It would be inexpressibly funny!" growled Tom Reade. "And what would be funnier than anything else would be our frantic efforts to make a satisfactory explanation."

"We could be arrested for theft, couldn't we?" asked Greg, glancing up apprehensively from the side wall pegging.

"Hardly that," replied Dick, with a shake of his head. "Theft, as I understand it, usually carries with it the sale of the plunder, or its concealment. We have hung up the tires where anyone who is interested may see them. Still, it would be awkward making explanations to strangers, and we'd all feel mighty cheap."

"Then maybe we'll have our chance to feel that way," suggested Danny Grin, his mouth opening still wider.

"Don't waste your time on pleasant thoughts, like that," grunted Reade. "Try to think of something sad."

"If it's the Dodge car, could Bert make any trouble for us?" Darrin wanted to know.

"Hardly," answered young Prescott. "We've simply played a clever trick on Dodge and Bayliss. As our excuse we could point out a trick they palmed off on us earlier in the day. We'd be quits. You needn't fear Dodge. Never, since that time when he got so awfully beaten over the assault charge he made against me, has he felt that he wanted to face me in court again."

"You fellows wait here, and don't be worried if I don't come back soon," interposed Darry suddenly.

"What are you going to do?" demanded Tom Reade.

But Dave had slipped away. When he chose to be as mysterious as that, Dick Prescott knew better than to question his chum.

Rapidly the work of straightening camp proceeded. Dave was back in a little more than half an hour. Yet he returned so noiselessly that he was in camp before the others realized his presence.

"Well——?" asked Dick eagerly.

"Come into the tent, fellows," whispered Dave.

When Darrin had them inside he went on, in a low voice:

"It's the Dodge car, all right. I hid behind a tree nearby the car and waited until they returned. When they found the front tires missing they were furious. Bayliss said we fellows had done it, but Bert said he didn't believe we were anywhere near here as yet. I slipped away and left them arguing. Dodge wants Bayliss to walk to the nearest place where he can telephone to a garage to send a man out with new tires. Bayliss says it's the Dodge car, and Bert can do the walking. It looks as though they would come to blows, and, as I've been gently reared, with a distaste for fighting, I slipped away."

"If they want to come down and look along the edge of this lake, they'll soon find out where their tires are," Dick Prescott chuckled. "But they'll have to come right in here to camp and ask for their property."

"Which they won't greatly care about doing," laughed Reade.

"Let them stay away until their nerves improve, then," said Dick briefly. "Now, let's see; we've got to set up the cots and bedding, and get the two lanterns filled and trimmed for the evening. That ought not to take many minutes."

Nor did it. When this had been done, Dick asked:

"Fellows, you know what we came here to do? Fish wouldn't taste bad for supper, would it? Which two of you want to go and try your luck for perch? They'll bite, even after dark."

Tom and Hazelton made a hasty selection of tackle, also producing a can of bait that had been brought along from Gridley.

Then Tom and Harry disappeared, taking with them one of the lanterns. A quarter of a mile below the camp were the ruins of an old pier from which they could cast their lines.

Where the perch are plentiful there is little skill involved in such fishing. Perch will bite after dark. The hook is baited and dropped in. The fish take hold greedily, rarely falling from the hook afterward.

While Tom and Harry were still fishing darkness fell. The two Gridley boys fished on in silence, adding frequently to the two crotched stick "strings" that flopped on the end of the pier.

"We've thirty-nine perch. That's enough, even for a hungry crowd like ours," said Tom at last, after lighting the lantern.

"Here is the fortieth, then," called Hazelton, as he felt a tug at his line. He landed a pound perch almost under Tom's nose.

"Good enough business, this," declared Tom contentedly. "I hope the fellows have everything else ready."

Tom carried the lantern; each boy carried a string of fish. As they neared camp, Danny Grin espied them, and ran forward to see the size of the catch.

"Here they are!" called Dalzell. "They've fish enough to feed a fat men's boarding house!"

"Bring them here," called Dick from a board beside which he and Greg crouched, each with a knife in hand.

One after another the fish were scaled and cleaned with a speed known only to old campers. Dave had two frying pans hot over a fire. In went the perch, sputtering in the fat and giving forth appetizing odors.

"My, but they're going to taste good!" declared Danny Grin.

Leaving Greg to finish with the cleaning of the fish Dick passed to another campfire, throwing into a hot pan the material for fried potatoes.

Ere long the meal was on the table—two boards placed across the tops of two boxes. It was a low table, but it served the purpose.

"My, but this fish tastes good!" murmured Tom Reade, as he picked a piece of fried perch free of the backbone and began eating it.

"We'll all of us find it the best meal ever, just because we've tramped far enough and worked hard enough to make any kind of decent food taste great," Dick smiled.

The supper over, and one of the campfires replenished, all six of the youngsters took the dishes down to the lake, carrying along two kettles of hot water, where a general dish-washing ensued. With so many to do the work, the camp was spick and span within twenty minutes.

"Now, I'm going to enjoy one thing that I haven't had all day, and that's some real rest," Prescott declared, throwing himself down upon the grass. "I don't believe I shall move until bedtime."

But he did. Already trouble was hovering over the camp. From out of the darkness beyond three pairs of eyes studied the campers in silence. One pair belonged to Bert Dodge, another the young Bayliss, and the third to a man of about middle age.

Dodge and Bayliss were thoroughly angry.

V. BERT DODGE HEARS THE BATTLE CRY

Ten minutes after Dick had thrown himself on the grass a rustling was heard above the camp. Then down the slope strode three figures.

Dick sat up, regarding the visitors in silence until they came within the fringe of the light of the campfire.

"Hello, Dodge," was Prescott's ready greeting. "I didn't hear you knock."

"Then maybe you will, before long," retorted Bert, in a voice of barely suppressed fury. "Prescott, you sneak, how long since you have added grand larceny to your other bad habits?"

"Try that over again," requested Dick calmly. "I don't believe I quite catch you."

"Yes, you do," Dodge retorted. "Come now, no lying about it."

"The nearest that I come to understanding you, as yet," Dick answered in an unruffled voice, "is that you appear to be trying to be offensive."

"I'll be more than offensive with you, before I get through!" cried Bert, his temper rising.

The third member of the visiting party was a man of about forty years, of sandy complexion and with a stubby, bristling red moustache. He looked like a man who had been born a fighter, though his face expressed keen attention rather than a desire to be quarrelsome. In dress this man looked as though he might be a farmer. Dick and his friends judged the man to be a rustic constable.

"A nice trick you played on us!" Bert went on angrily. "You took our front tires off the wheels of the car and ran away with them."

"Easy! Careful!" Dick smilingly advised. "Did anyone see us take the tires off and run away with them?"

Bert looked astonished, then gulped chokingly. Did Prescott and his friends intend to deny the charge?

"No one had to see you take the tires," Bert went on angrily. "All that is necessary is for us to discover the merchandise on you!"

"Then you have missed some tires, and you think I'm wearing them?" Dick chuckled.

"Don't try to sneak, lie or equivocate" commanded Bert Dodge, his face flushing with anger. "Those are my tires hanging from that line!"

"Are they?" Prescott inquired, in a tone of the mildest curiosity.

"You know they are!"

"Then, if the tires are your property, just help yourself!" Dick coolly answered. "If they are your tires, I will even offer to forego making any storage charges for the time they have been. hanging there."

"Hang you!" choked Bert

Then he turned to the man with them, demanding:

"Don't you see a pretty clear case of grand larceny here?"

"I can't sa-ay that I do—yet," drawled the stranger.

"You'll never see a clearer case!" quivered young Dodge.

To this the stranger did not reply. He had been looking over this sextette of high school boys, and if one might judge from his face, the man seemed to be rather favorably impressed by Dick & Co.

"If these are your tires," Dick went on smoothly, "would you mind removing them from our camp?"

"I won't," Bert answered hotly. "You fellows, who stole the tires, will take them back to the car from which you stole them, and there you will put the tires on again."

"You've missed some part of the idea in your haste," declared young Prescott.

"What do you mean?" gasped Dodge.

"I mean simply that we'll have nothing whatever to do with taking back the tires, or putting them on your wheels."

"Then I'll see what I can do to punish you all!" flared Bert hotly. "You're none of you any better than a lot of low-lived thieves!"

The situation was growing too warm for Dave Darrin, though Dick was still smiling.

Darry jumped to his feet, advancing upon Bert Dodge, who retreated a couple of steps.

"Dodge," Dave began, "you want to put a halter on your tongue. You can't come here to this camp and call too many names. You don't amount to much, of course, and nothing that you know how to say should be treated very seriously. It would be hard for a rascal like yourself to be really insulting to anyone possessed of the average degree of honor. But we came up here for pleasure and rest. Both your face and your voice—not particularly your words—are disturbing. If those are your tires, kindly take them and get out of camp!"

"You fellows will carry the tires back to the road, and you'll put them on the wheels," retorted Dodge hoarsely.

"As Dick has already told you, we'll do nothing of the sort," Dave flashed back at him. "All we want, Dodge, is for you to get out of this camp. Incidentally, if you want the tires, we shall offer no objections to your taking them with you."

"What have you to say to that?" demanded Bert hotly, turning to the man with the stubby red mustache.

"It seems to me like good judgment," replied the stranger.

"You say that?" screamed Bert, going into a blind passion. "Is that what we brought you here for?"

"I don't really know what you did bring me here for," replied the stranger. "All I know is that you stopped me, when I was driving past with my load of produce for the Gridley markets, and you offered me two dollars to come down here and not say much unless I was spoken to. I didn't come until you paid me the money. It was good pay, and I'll stay here an hour longer if you really think I owe you that much time."

"You're not a constable, or a sheriff's officer, are you, sir?" asked Dick pleasantly.

"Not unless someone made me one when I wasn't looking," replied the stranger, with a shrewd smile.

"I understand," nodded Prescott. "This fellow Dodge hired you to come down with him for more than one reason. In the first place, he and Bayliss were afraid to come here without backing. For another thing, Dodge thought that we'd guess you to be a constable, and I'll admit that I did mistake you for an officer at the outset. Dodge thought your presence would frighten us. You look like a decent man, sir, and I'm sorry to see you in such company. These two fellows were chased out of the Gridley High School just because they were considered unfit to associate with the members of the student body."

"That's a lie!" sputtered young Dodge.

"If you want to find out, sir, whether I'm speaking the truth," Dick went on, looking at the stranger, "just ask any well-informed citizen of Gridley whether Bert Dodge and his chum, Bayliss, were really chased out of the Gridley High School. You'll soon discover who the liar is—Dodge or myself."

"Hang you!" roared Bert, advancing with fists clenched. "I'll punch your head off your shoulders!"

"Wait one moment, though," advised the stranger, stepping between Dick and Bert. "Here, young man!"

"What's this?" Bert demanded, as the stranger forced something into one of his hands.

"It's the two-dollar bill you handed me," replied he of the stubby moustache. "I reckon that I made a mistake in taking it."

"Aren't you on my side any longer?" gasped Bert, in utter astonishment.

"I reckon not," was the crisp answer. "I didn't realize that I was in such bad company."

"But you've only that mucker's word against mine!" cried Bert, flying into another rage.

"I've watched you both, and I'm a pretty good judge of human nature," replied the farmer. "I prefer to believe this young man that you seem to dislike so much."

"You're a nice one—you are!" uttered Bert, glaring in disgust at the ally on whom he had counted.

"Perhaps you can calm down, Dodge, long enough to listen to reason," Dick suggested. "First of all, I am going to admit that we did remove the front tires of your car and that we brought the tires here and hung them on that line."

"Do you hear that?" demanded Dodge eagerly, turning once more to the farmer. "They admit stealing my tires."

"I didn't quite notice that the young man went as far as to admit theft," the farmer replied. "What I heard was that these young men took your tires. As yet I haven't heard their reason for removing the tires of your car."

"The reason for doing so was," Dick went on coolly, "that we had some questions to ask of this fellow Dodge. We knew that if he had to come here to look up his tires, we'd have a chance to ask the questions. Dodge, you thought you were having fun with us when you decorated the entrance to that covered bridge with your notice about a rabid mastiff at large in that part of the country, didn't you? You thought that a mad-dog scare would send us helter-skelter home. If it gives you any satisfaction, I'll admit that the notice did startle us for a brief time. But we soon got at the truth of the matter, and learned that posting the notice was your act."

"Can you prove it?" sneered Dodge.

Ignoring the question, Dick went on:

"Perhaps, had your trick affected only ourselves, then the trick would have been only a piece of meanness without any very serious results. But are you sure, Bert Dodge, that no one but ourselves was alarmed by that notice? Do you know whether any woman traveling over the road may have seen that notice, and then, noticing any strange dog trotting in her direction was frightened, into convulsions, or actually frightened to death? Do you know whether some man, traveling along the road on really important business, read the notice and was afraid to continue on his errand, thereby losing a good deal of money through your foolish trickery? Do you know, for certain, that twenty serious consequences to other people have not followed on the heels of your stupid, senseless joke? Have you any way of being certain that the sheriffs officers are not already searching industriously for the two foolish young fellows who took so many desperate chances in attempting such a 'joke' as that of which you two fellows were guilty?"

"Who's going to prove that Bayliss or I put up that notice?" sneered young Dodge.

"There's at least one witness," Dick answered, "who would testify, at any time, that he passed by you on the road when you were both laughing loudly over a joke you had played. Then there's the notice itself. A handwriting expert could swear that it was done with a pen held by your hand."

"Where's the notice?" asked Bayliss suddenly.

"It's where we can produce it at any time that it's wanted," Prescott made reply. "If anyone has been injured, Dodge, in health or in business, by your stupid, brainless bit of horse play and meanness, then I imagine that you'll find yourself in for a serious time of it. So now you know why we took the tires off your automobile. We knew that our campfire would show you the way to our camp, and that you'd surely be here to hear what we had to say to you. Dodge, we don't care particularly for you, or for Bayliss, either, but if the warning I've given you about pasting up such lying notices to scare people traveling over a public highway is of any use to you, then you're welcome to what you've learned."

The coolness of this proposition was such as to take Bert's breath away for a few seconds. When he recovered, he turned to the red-moustached farmer, sputtering:

"Well, what do you—you think of that cast-iron nerve and cheek?"

"If the facts have been correctly stated," replied the farmer, "I believe these young men have done you a service, and that you'd show more of the spirit of a man if you admitted it."

"Humph!" muttered Dodge.

"Humph!" echoed Bayliss.

Then, enraged at the tantalizing smile on Prescott's face, Bert lost all control of himself.

Striding over, he shook his fist before Dick's face, at the same time shouting:

"All you need is a trimming with fists, and I'm going to give you one—you hound!"

VI. PAID IN FULL—TO DATE

Then, struck by a sudden consideration of prudence, Bert stepped back two or three feet, looking appealingly at the farmer.

"Will you stay here long enough to see fair play done?" Dodge demanded of the farmer.

"If there is going to be a boxing exhibit, with plenty of science, and all fair play," grinned the farmer, "I don't believe there are enough of you young fellows here to chase me away. Start things moving as soon as you like."

With that the stranger drew out a pipe, which he proceeded to fill and light.

"Get yourself in shape, you mucker!" breathed Bert fiercely, pulling off his coat and tossing his motoring cap after it to the ground. "Come on—get ready!"

"I'm no rowdy," Dick declared coolly, making no move to put himself in readiness.

"No; you're a coward, with a long line of talk, but no spirit in you!" jeered young Dodge.

"If I'm a coward, what possible glory would there be in your fighting me?" Dick smiled.

"Let me have the sneak!" begged Dave, stepping forward, but Dick pushed his churn back. Tom Reade took tight hold of Dave's right arm.

With the prospects of an encounter vanishing, Bert Dodge's valor went up tenfold.

"Get up your guard!" he roared. "I've been taking boxing lessons and I want to teach you one or two things."

"I haven't been taking any boxing lessons lately," Dick remarked with composure.

"Oh, that's why you're afraid to act at all like a man, is it?" scoffed Bert in his harshest voice.

"No; my main reason for not caring to fight you, Dodge, is that I don't like the idea of soiling my hands."

"What's that?" screamed Bert in added fury. "You insult me—you—you mucker?"

"If I'm a mucker, then you don't need to feel insulted at my opinion of you," Dick suggested, with a smile.

But this hesitancy on the part of Prescott was filling Bert Dodge with more valor every instant.

"Prescott, I've owed you something for a mighty long time," quivered Bert. "And now it's coming! Here it is!"

He aimed a savage blow at Dick. Young Prescott, who had really doubted that Dodge had courage enough to invite a fight, was not expecting it. The blow landed on Dick's chin, sending the leader of Dick & Co to the ground.

"Now, get up and answer that—you—you sneak!" dared Bert exultantly.

Dick was on his feet fast enough, side-stepping just in time to dodge a follow-up punch.

"Dodge," Dick remarked, as he threw up his guard, "there, is still time for you to beat it out of here if you don't want to take the consequences of that blow."

"You put me out of here!" Bert retorted defiantly.

Though Dick was quivering with indignation, he still hesitated to spring at Dodge. Dick didn't want to fight, on the sole ground that he felt too much contempt for his opponent.

"Come, on, you mucker!" challenged Bert, dancing about Prescott. Then Dodge delivered two swift, straight-from-the-shoulder blows.

Of a sudden Dick jumped into the fray.

"Good!" quivered Darry, his eyes flashing. To Dave's way of thinking, Dick's swift vigorous defence should have followed that first knock-down.

"Come on, you mucker!" taunted Bert, while the interchange of blows now became fast and furious. "If there's anything you know how to do in this game, let us see what it is! Trot it out!"

"I'll attend to my side of this match," said Dick quietly. "My advice to you is that you keep quiet and save your wind for your own protection."

"Bosh! You can't do anything to anyone in my class!" sneered Bert. Indeed, young Dodge's address to his task opened up particularly well. Dodge was rather heavy for his years, and he had been doing some good training work through the spring and early summer.

Dick, who was lighter and not noticeably quicker, confined himself, at the outset, to his old tactics of allowing his opponent to tire himself.

Bert, however, was soon quick to discover this. He moderated the savagery of his own attack somewhat, sparring cleverly for a chance to feint and then land a face blow.

Dick gave ground readily when it served his purpose, though he did not run.

"Keep back, fellows!" called Tom Reade. "Don't get near enough to interfere with either man."

"Don't interfere with either the man or the thing, you mean," interposed Danny Grin.

"Shut up, Dalzell!" ordered Reade with generous roughness. "Remember that you're not fighting Dodge, and that it's unfair to say anything to anger him. Be fair!"

Though Dick's chums followed the fighters, at a generous distance, they would have noticed, had they been less intent on the work of the combatants, that Bayliss kept well on the outskirts of the crowd. Bayliss didn't want to attract any dangerous notice to himself, nor was he at all sure that the farmer would interfere to see fair play for Dodge's side. In this, however, he really wronged the farmer.

In giving ground Prescott stepped backward, his feet becoming entangled with a vine running along the ground.

Down went Dick, just in time to save himself from a savage blow in the face.

"Stand up to the fight, like a man!" roared Dodge, for he felt that he was winning.

Dick drew himself to his knees. Ere he could gain his feet Bert landed a smashing blow on his left cheek. Down went Dick again.

"Stop that sort of thing, Dodge!" flared Dave Darrin. "Either man who goes down must have safety until he's on his feet again."

"Shut up!" flared Bert, but this time he waited, afraid to try to hit his opponent until Dick was on his feet.

"Can't Dodge run his own fight, hang you?" Bayliss demanded. This was the first word he had had the courage to utter.

Quick as a flash Dave wheeled, running toward Dodge's companion.

"This isn't wholly Dodge's fight, Bayliss," Darry cried, his anger at a white heat. "Prescott has some rights in the game, and you know it, too."

"You're too fresh!" snapped Bayliss.

"You're no good, Bayliss," Darry remarked contemptuously.

"You're a sneak and a liar, and so——"

"And so I shall claim some of your time just as soon as Dick and Dodge have finished," retorted Darry coldly. "Don't forget that, Bayliss, and don't show yourself up by trying to run away."

With that Darrin stalked back to watch the finish of the present affair.

Dick, on his feet again, renewed the battle in earnest. He found Dodge a really worthy opponent. Both boys soon had bruised faces to show.

Smash! That blow, delivered by Bert, almost ended the fight. Dick staggered backward, the blood beginning to flow from his nose.

Dodge followed it up, driving in another hard blow. The pain stung Dick, not to madness, but into a more resolute defense, with more of offense in it.

Then Dick so manoeuvred that he had Dodge between himself and the shore of the lake. This advantage gave young Prescott slightly higher ground on the gentle slope toward the lake. Bert tried to manoeuvre for a more level footing, but Prescott drove him slowly backward.

Suddenly one of Dick's blows landed, with staggering force, on the tip of Dodge's chin. Bert went to earth, rolling over as he struck, and lying face downward. He was not knocked out, but he had had enough.

For a moment or two Dick glanced down at his adversary in cold contempt. Then suddenly, without a word, he bent over, seizing Dodge by the shirt collar and belt, and threw him sprawling out into the lake.

Young Dodge landed some distance from the bank. There was a loud splash and a yell from the vanquished one, then a gurgling noise as Bert's mouth went under water. He disappeared under the black surface of the lake.

Dick waited calmly, ready to go to Dodge's assistance if needed. Bert, however, rose quickly, the water not much above his knees.

"You loafer!" hissed Dodge, dashing the water from his face.

"Haven't you had enough?" asked Prescott mildly. "Didn't the water cool you off?"

Dodge didn't reply, but he walked a few steps away before attempting to step on dry land, thus avoiding his late opponent.

"That little business is all over," declared Tom Reade coolly. "Bend down by the water, Dick, and I'll wash your nose with my handkerchief. Greg, bring one of the lanterns here."

"Now, I guess it's time for our practice, Bayliss," Dave announced, stepping over to Bert's companion.

"I've got to look after Dodge," mumbled Bayliss.

"No, you don't!" Dave warned him. "After the kind of language you have used to me you can't slip out of trouble quite so easily as all that. Get ready."

"Quit—can't you?" protested Bayliss.

"No; not unless you'll admit that you lied when you applied disagreeable names to me," said Dave Darrin firmly. "Bayliss, are you ready to admit that you are a liar?"

"You bet I'm not!" cried the other hoarsely. "Then back up your words! Ready! Here's something coming!"

That "something" arrived. Bayliss fairly gasped as Darrin started in on him.

But Dave drew back, holding up his fists.

"You didn't get started fairly, Bayliss," Darry declared. "I want you to have as fair a show as possible. Draw in a deep breath. Fill your lungs with air. Plant your feet firmly. Put up your hands."

Patiently Darry waited for perhaps three quarters of a minute.

"Now!" he said at last.

Then the fight went on, but it was one sided. Had Bayliss done himself justice, it might have resulted in a draw, at least, for Bayliss was strong and quick. But he lacked courage.

Presently Bayliss, considerably battered, though not as severely punished as Dodge had been, went down to his knees, nor would he rise.

"Going to get up and go on?" demanded Darry, pausing before him. "Or do you quit?"

Bayliss, breathing hard, did not answer.

"What you need here," declared the farmer, stepping forward and puffing slowly at his pipe, "is a referee. I'll take the job. Bayliss, if you believe that you can do anything more, then the place for you is on your feet. I'll give you until I count five."

Deliberately the farmer counted, but Bayliss remained on his knees.

"Bayliss loses," announced the farmer. "Not that I believe he ever had much in the fighting line to lose, but he loses."

"I'll wait five minutes for him," offered Darry. "By that time he'll be in shape to go on again."

"He's in good enough shape now," declared the self-appointed referee. "The point is that Mr. Bayliss hasn't any liking for boxing. He's the kind of young man that finds croquet strenuous enough!"

The four recent combatants now had some repairing to do. Dick and Dave were attended by their own friends. The farmer offered to help Bert Dodge ease his bruises. Greg made a tender of his services to Bayliss, but was gruffly repulsed.

"Everything is over," called the farmer at last. "I must wake up my horses and get on to Gridley. Young gentlemen, I'm much obliged for the rest that my horses have had, and also for my entertainment. Dodge, I don't believe you're really worth an ounce of soda crackers, but I realize that you don't feel as bright as usual, so I'm going to help you get the tires on your car."

Reaching up, the farmer untied one end of the line on which the tires hung. Letting the tubes fall at his feet. The man then drew a card out of his pocket and handed it to Reade.

"That will tell you who I am, if you ever want to find me," suggested the farmer.

"George Simpson," said Tom, reading the card. "Mr. Simpson, we're certainly glad of having had the pleasure of meeting you."

Reade thereupon gravely introduced the other members of Dick & Co.

"Glad to have met you, boys," said Simpson, picking up the tires. "Now, come along, Dodge and Bayliss, if you want my help, for I really must be moving."

"This hasn't been such a dull evening, after all," jovially commented Tom Reade, after the late visitors had vanished into the darkness surrounding the camp.

"I'm sorry for the fighting, though," mused Dick aloud. "I don't enjoy anything that makes bad blood, or more bad blood, between human beings."

"You couldn't do anything else but fight," retorted Greg sharply.

"That's the only reason why I fought," Prescott rejoined.

Half or three quarters of an hour later two resonant honks sounded from the red Smattach automobile up at the roadside. Dick & Co. rightly judged that Simpson had taken this means of signaling them that the Smattach car was ready to go on its way again.

"What's the matter with Mr. Simpson?" Tom demanded at the top of his voice.

From the throats of all of Dick & Co. came the ready response!

"He's all right!"

Honk! honk! honk! Mr. Simpson had heard this tribute to himself. Then the chugging of a starting car was heard. The noise soon sounded fainter, then died away.

"That's the last of the firm of Dodge and Bayliss for this season!" chuckled Dave Darrin.

In this conclusion, however, it was wholly probable that Darry was wrong. He would have been sure of it, himself, had he been privileged to hear the talk of Bert Dodge and his companion as the enraged and humiliated pair drove swiftly over the rough road on their way back to Gridley.

"I can't think of anything bad enough to call Dick Prescott," growled Bert, who sat at the steering wheel.

"Don't try to," grumbled Bayliss. "It would poison your mind."

"The mucker!"

"The sneak!"

"The coward! He fights only when he has his gang with him."

"I don't see what the high school fellows can find to admire in that crowd," quivered Bayliss, tenderly fingering his damaged eye.

"Never mind what anyone thinks of them!" raged Bert Dodge. "We've nothing but our own side of the affair to settle!"

"What do you mean?" asked Bayliss curiously.

"Bayliss, what do you think I am?"

"Oh, I guess you're a pretty good sort of fellow, Bert."

"Do you think I'd let business like to-night's go by without resenting it?"

"Are you going to try to take Prescott on again?" Bayliss asked wonderingly.

"I'm not a fool!" retorted Dodge indignantly. "Prescott might thrash me again. Bayliss, I'm going to hit him with the kind of club that he can't beat!"

"Is the club big enough to take care of Darrin, too?"

"I'm after the whole Prescott gang, for good measure!" Bert raged.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll let you in on it, Bayliss, when I have all the details planned—if you've nerve enough to do a man's part—of which I'm not too sure," Dodge finished under his breath.

"You may count on me for anything—anything that is prudent!" Bayliss declared.

VII. THE BOX THAT SET THEM GUESSING

"Look at that!" cried Tom Reade, leaping up from the breakfast table so precipitately that he overturned his cup of coffee.

"What?" demanded Greg.

"Didn't you see that—out on the lake?" Tom demanded.

"I didn't see anything," Greg admitted.

"There it goes again!" cried Tom.

"Oh, I saw something rise from the water and fall back again," continued Greg.

"Do you know what it was?" Reade insisted.

"No."

"That was a black bass!" declared Reade, as though it were one of the seven wonders of the world.

"Keep cool, Reade," chaffed Danny Grin. "We all knew, that there are fish in the lake."

"But black bass——" choked Tom.

"Are they any better eating than any other fish?" asked Hazelton.

"Not so much better," Reade confessed. "But black bass are gamey, and hard fish to land when you hook 'em!"

"They're no better food, but it's harder work to get them," laughed Greg. "Sit down, Tom, and keep cool"

"No real fisherman would ever talk that way," Tom insisted indignantly. "The greatest charm about fishing comes in hooking and landing the really good fighting fish!"

"How much does a black bass weigh?" asked Greg.

"That one probably weighed four pounds. Look! look! There he goes again. Did you fellows see him?"

"There isn't any four pound fish in water that can give me a fight," Danny Grin asserted solemnly. "I'd be ashamed to talk about having a fight with a four pound fish. It looks small and mean to me."

"Well, go after some bass, if they're so easy to catch," urged Greg. "I'll look on and see if you've over estimated your ability as a fisherman."

"You're a fine fisherman, aren't you?" demanded Tom scornfully.

"No fisherman at all," Holmes promptly confessed.

"If you knew the A-B-C of fishing," Reade continued, "you'd know that one must have a boat in order to go after bass."

"Don't they ever come near enough to shore to be caught without the aid of a boat?" Danny Grin demanded.

Tom snorted.

"Tell me," insisted Dalzell.

"You're stringing me," protested Tom.

"No; I'm after information," Dan asserted.

"If you really don't know," Tom resumed, "I'll tell you that black bass are generally caught only by trolling for them. That is, if I fish for bass I've got to keep playing my line over the stern while someone else rows the boat."

"You've a positive genius for picking out the easy half of the job," Danny Grin murmured admiringly.

"The trolling part of the job merely looks easy," Tom went on, good-humoredly. "The fellow who is doing the fisherman act must have all the brains, while the fellow at the oars may be a real dolt, for all he has to know. I'll take you out with me after black bass, Danny, if we can get hold of a boat one of these days."

"Who'll do the rowing?" asked Dalzell suspiciously.

"Naturally you will," was Reade's answer.

"Can't we find a boat somewhere about here?" asked Hazelton eagerly.

"I haven't seen one on any part of the lake that is visible from here," Prescott put in. "I don't know why, but this so called second lake doesn't seem to be a popular spot. There isn't a house to be seen anywhere along the shore on either side, and I doubt if there's a boat on this sheet of water."

"I don't believe there is a boat, either—and just look at that!" cried Reade, as three distinct splashes about an eighth of a mile out showed how frequently the bass were leaping.

"It's tough—not to have a chance at good sport!" declared Dave Darrin impatiently. "We fellows ought to search this old shore, anyway, to see if we can't find some sort of craft."

"Come along, then!" urged Tom, leaping to his feet. "I can't stand this state of affairs much longer. Look at that, out there. Four bass jumping within fifteen seconds. This is cruelty to fishermen!"

"Tom, you take Dan and Harry, and go up along the shore," proposed Dick. "I'll take the others with me, and we'll go down along the shore. Each party will walk and search for half an hour, and then return, unless we find a boat sooner."

"Aren't you going to leave someone to watch the camp?" asked Danny Grin.

"It is hardly necessary," decided Prescott.

"But Bert Dodge——" suggested Greg.

"For Dodge to be out here so early he'd have to be up by five in the morning, and make an early start," Dick rejoined. "I don't believe he's industrious enough for that."

"The camp will be all right," Dave agreed.

"Of course," Tom assented. "Anyway, there's nothing here worth stealing that would be small enough to carry away."

"Except the food," hinted Danny Grin.

"This is too far off the main roads for tramps to come this way," Dick replied.

So Dalzell, with a sigh, rose to accompany Reade and Hazelton.

Dick and his two companions thoroughly explored the shore as far as they went on the lower part of the lake. From time to time Prescott consulted his watch. In all the time that they were out they passed only one building, a tumble-down, weather-beaten shack that looked as though it had not been inhabited in twenty years. Not even a vestige of a craft was found.

"It's time to go back," said Dick at last. "Too bad we couldn't find anything."

"There must have been boats on this lake at one time," hinted Dave, "or else there wouldn't be that broken-down old pier near the camp."

"I guess there was a time when this lake was a fishing ground to supply the Gridley and other near-by markets," Dick went on. "But, fellows, there's a curious thing about these fish markets that I don't know whether you've noticed. There are several fish stores in Gridley, and yet in all of them you couldn't buy a pound of fish except the kinds that are caught in salt water. I wonder if there are any fish markets in this part of the country that make a specialty of fresh-water fish?"

More slowly, Dick, Dave and Greg retraced their steps.

"Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!" signaled Dick as they neared their camp.

From away up the shore the answering "hoo hoo!" came faintly.

"Tom didn't give up the search as easily as we did," commented Dave. "Poor old chap, he will be seriously disappointed if he hasn't found something that will float. He's the one sincere fisherman of the crowd, and the bass certainly have hypnotized him."

"Race you back to camp," offered Dick.

"Come back," laughed Dave, "and make a fair start."

But Dick kept on, laughing back at his distanced comrades. Prescott ran like a deer, as was to be expected from one who had played left end on the invincible Gridley High School eleven.

Just as he bounded on to the camp ground Dick's glance fell on a packing box some four feet long.

"This doesn't belong here," he muttered, bounding forward, then dropping on one knee beside the box.

In amazed wonder he read the following inscription, from a card tacked to the box:

"Will Dick Prescott accept the enclosed and keep it as trustee for Dick & Co.? From a most appreciative friend—two of them, in fact!"

"Now, what on earth can this be?" Dick demanded, as Dave reached his side.

Darry read the message on the card with growing wonder.

"Greg," directed Dick, "trot into the camp and get a hammer and the cold chisel. Hustle!"

Full of curiosity, Greg Holmes carried out the order at a run.

"Here you are!" panted Holmes.

Dick took the cold chisel, placed the edge against one side of the lid, and was about to strike the first blow when Darry snatched the hammer from his hand.

"What ails you?" Prescott demanded.

"Suspicion," Dave replied dryly. "In fact, I've a bad case of suspiciousness."

"What are you talking about?" Dick insisted.

"I don't know," Dave admitted. "But I've something of a shivery hunch that perhaps we'd better not open that box."

"What, then? Toss it into the lake?"

"Even that might not be as foolish as it sounds to you," Darry went on. "How do we know what that box contains!"

"We never will know until we open it," declared Greg impatiently.

"And then we might be mighty sorry that we opened it," Dave continued.

"You think that there is something suspicious about the box?" queried Prescott.

"Oh, the box looks all right," Dave laughed. "But the contents might prove more than a disappointment. A real danger, for instance."

"Do you really think so?" Dick mused wonderingly.

"Well, let's not be too rash," Darrin urged. "When I try to think of the friends who might take the trouble to come away out here to leave something for us, about the dearest friends I can think of are—Dodge and Bayliss."

"And what would they leave in the box for us?" pondered Prescott.

"Anything from a nest of rattlesnakes to an infernal machine," Greg Holmes suggested.

"That doesn't sound quite reasonable," Dick replied slowly. "Neither Dodge nor Bayliss amount to much, and both fellows are pretty mean; but do you imagine they would dare do anything that might come very close to murder? I don't."

"Oh, well, open the box, then," Dave agreed. "Whatever may be in it of a dangerous nature, I'll stand by and take my share of it."

"A few minutes won't make any difference," said Dick, rising and dropping hammer and chisel. "We'll wait until the rest of the fellows come in, and then we'll hold a pow-wow and vote on what's to be done."

"Tom! Oh, Tom! Fellows! Hoo-hoo!" roared Greg, making a megaphone of his hands.

"Wha-at's wa-anted?" came Reade's hail, still from a distance.

"Hurry up!" yelled Greg. "Hustle. Big doings here!"

"Have you found a boat?" came Tom's query.

"No! But—hustle! Run!"

Greg was alive with curiosity. He could not wait. If the box were to be opened only after a pow-wow, then the sooner the council were held the sooner the mystery of the box's contents would be solved.

Tom, Dan and Harry came in at a trot.

"What's all the row about?" Reade demanded.

"That," stated Greg, pointing to the packing case.

"What's in it?" asked Reade.

"We don't know," said Dick.

"I fail to see what's to hinder you from knowing," retorted Reade. "I see that you have the tools for opening the case at hand. What were you waiting for—my strong arm on the hammer? If so——"

While speaking Tom had been glancing at the inscription on the card.

"I don't know just whether we ought to open it," Dave declared. "That box may come from Dodge and Bayliss, and we may be sorry that we meddled with it."

"There may be something in that," agreed Reade, laying down hammer and chisel and rising. "But I wish we knew."

"We all wish that," said Greg.

"Well, what are we going to do?" inquired Hazelton. "Are we going to remain afraid of the box and shy away from it?"

"I'm not afraid," replied Darrin, his color rising. "I'm willing to open it if you fellows say so."

"Then what has kept you back so far?" Tom wanted to know.

"If it's a job put up by Dodge and Bayliss, then I don't just like to be caught napping by them," Dave replied. "However, you fellows all get back a few rods—and here goes for little David to solve the box mystery."

"Not!" advised Reade with emphasis. "I suppose we'll have to do something with this box, sometime, but I, for one, am in favor of considering the matter for a little while before we go any further. Dave, you are a foxy one, but I'm glad you are. It may save us all trouble."

So the box lay there through the forenoon, and Dick & Co. did little else but wonder and guess as to its contents.

Any member of Dick & Co. would have taken the risk of opening it, had he been chosen by his comrades to do so; but not one of them wanted one of the other fellows to take the risk.

In the meantime Greg Holmes could scarcely curb his rising curiosity.

VIII. THE MAN WITH THE HAUNTING FACE

The noon meal had been eaten, and the camp put to rights. The water before them and the woods behind them called to nature-loving Dick & Co., yet the invitations were ignored.

What could be in the innocent-looking box? That was the question that held six minds in the thraldom of curiosity.

"I can't stand this suspense any longer!" muttered Reade towards three o'clock in the afternoon.

"Open the box yourself," prompted Danny Grin.

"I will," offered Reade, advancing toward the box. "I don't care if it's a ton of dynamite, all fixed up with clock work and automatic fuses. I want to find it out."

But Greg Holmes sprang forward.

"Wait just a little longer, Tom," he urged. "Dick will be back in a few minutes and then we'll get him to agree to it."

"Dick Prescott doesn't open the box," Tom retorted.

"It's addressed to him, anyway," said Greg firmly.

"I guess that's right," interposed Dave, nodding. "And Dick will be here soon."

Dick reappeared within five minutes. He had taken two buckets and had gone to a spring at some distance from camp for water.

"Dick," said Greg, "there's Tom on the ground on the other side of that tree. He's growling like a Teddy bear because no one has opened the box."

"I think we'd better open it," nodded Prescott, after glancing at the faces of the others, for he saw that their curiosity was at fever heat.

"Hooray!" yelled Greg. "Come on, fellows!"

There was a rush for the hammer and cold chisel, but young Holmes won.

"You pry the lid up on one side, and then give me a chance at the other side," proposed Tom Reade.

But Greg, smiling quietly, soon had the entire lid off the box.

Nothing but a lot of multi-colored, curly packing paper met their gaze.

"The world destroyer must be underneath this ton of rubbish," grunted Darry, kneeling and prying the strings of paper out.

At last he delved down to a parcel wrapped in stout manila paper and securely tied with cord.

"Cut the strings," advised Reade, passing Dave a pocket knife with one blade open.

Darrin, however, had lifted the parcel out to lay it on the ground. It was fairly heavy, but Dave handled it with ease. Now he cut the strings. As the papers were pushed aside he and the others saw nothing at first but a lot of khaki-colored canvas.

"Fellows," declared Dick, "I don't believe this is a practical joke, at all. It looks to me as though someone had sent us something very much like a cook tent."

All thought of danger having now passed, Prescott and his comrades unfolded the canvas. At the bottom of the package they found something that caused them to send up a wild hurrah.

Two daintily modeled white maple paddles lay there. There were two other objects made of wood that looked like seats.

"Fellows," gasped Dick, "don't you understand what this is?"

"I do," nodded Tom huskily. "I do, if not another soul in the world does. Fellows, it's a collapsible canoe, all ready to set up and run into the water. It's our boat, that we've been wanting so badly. It's a beauty! Oh, shake it out! Lay it and let's put the braces in! I shan't be able to breathe again until I see this thing of beauty floating on the water!"

Yet Tom was no more excited than were the other members of Dick & Co. All took a hand, and all tried to work so nimbly that they got considerably in the way of one another. Yet at last the canoe was ready to be picked up and carried to the lake's edge.

"Here's even a painter to tie it to a tree with," shouted Dave. "Say! Whoever bought this canoe knew all about one!"

"Don't anyone try to get into the craft yet," ordered Dick, as the canoe was slid out upon the water, Prescott holding the painter, which he tied around a sapling growing near the water's edge. "We want to make sure that this canoe is waterproof. If it stands twenty minutes without taking in water we'll know it's all right."

Since they couldn't board the canoe, these delighted boys joined hands, dancing about in a ring. Then, suddenly, they started off in burlesqued figures of an Indian war-dance, whooping like mad.

While the excitement was at its height, Reade suddenly seized Hazelton by his collar, rushing him to the lake. Into it went both boys, Tom ducking Harry's head under the water.

"Wha-a-at's that for?" sputtered Hazelton as soon as he could talk.

"Because you needed it," replied Tom soberly. "Will you kindly do as much for me? We were all such chumps that we cheated ourselves out of the best black bass fishing to-day that ever mortal saw. So we all ought to be ducked."

Harry stared at his friend in some astonishment.

"On second thought, though," concluded Reade, "you needn't duck me. You may postpone it. I'm going bass fishing the very instant that the canoe is judged to be safe."

"And I'll be the bass-hunting pin-head who merely does the paddling," proposed Danny Grin meekly.

"I guess you're the biggest pin-head in camp, all right—after myself," nodded Reade. "So we ought to hit it off as bass fishermen, Danny boy."

"Fellows," hinted Dick judicially, "I think we had better turn the canoe over to Tom for the first trip. His craze to go bass fishing is so acute that it fairly pains him. Tom can have the first trip, can't he?"

There was a general assent. Tom darted away to overhaul such tackle as he had for bass fishing. He came back with a small but tough jointed rod, some very long lines, and some flashily, bright spoons.

"Danny, get a shovel and dig for some grubs," Tom ordered, as he sorted tackle. "When you can't fool black bass with one thing you must try another. If you fellows see any tiny chubs swimming about in the little coves here, try to get a lot of them. We can keep them in a bucket of water. Perch? Bah! The real fishing is about to begin now!"

"Do you really expect to get any bass today, Tom?" Dick inquired.

"Hard to say," replied Reade, shaking his head as he glanced up from the tackle he was overhauling to look out upon the lake. "I haven't seen a single bass jump in five hours now. But I may get two or three. I certainly will, if the bass are sportsmanlike enough to give me any show at 'em."

By the time that Tom had his tackle in shape Dick and Dave pronounced the canoe wholly water tight. Dan Dalzell, equipped with one of the paddles, took a kneeling position just back of the bow seat. Tom got in next, squatting with his face to the stern of the canoe. None of the others were to go. At a pinch this ten-foot canoe might hold three, but fishermen as a rule do not care to have extra passengers in their boats.

"Give 'em a cheer, boys!" cried Darry, as Danny Grin, with a few deft strokes of the paddle, propelled the craft away from the shore.

"And let that cheer be the last," called back Tom, in a low voice that nevertheless traveled backward over the water. "Don't frighten my bass from coming up to take a look at me."

"Tom surely is the sincere old bass fisher, isn't he?" demanded Harry Hazelton.

"I don't know," Dick made answer. "We can tell better when we've seen him hook and land a few fish."

"Paddle slowly right across the lake, Danny," begged Tom, watching his trolling line.

From the camp the boys watched until they grew tired of the monotony. Reade did not seem destined to secure a single "strike" from bass that afternoon.

"At half-past four o'clock," proposed Darrin, "I'll go down to the old pier and see what I can do toward catching a string of perch for to-night."

"I'll go with you," nodded Hazelton.

"All right," agreed Dick. "Greg and I will get in the water and wood, and see to whatever else we're to have for supper. I don't believe Tom will bring us anything."

Nor did Reade himself believe it. For two solid hours Dan Dalzell paddled lazily wherever his skipper told him to. The nearest that Tom seemed destined to get a "strike" was when his hook caught in the weeds.

At last they were some distance out on the lake, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards from shore. Reade, wholly discouraged, was about to give the order to make for camp.

Turning about in the canoe, Reade discovered that Dalzell was in a brown study, slowly lifting his paddle and lifting it out again, but without watching his course.

"Look out, Danny boy," cautioned Tom, "or you'll scratch the sides of the canoe on those bushes right ahead."

Dan glanced up with a start, backing water. They had now passed in under the shadow of trees, for the sun was low, and it was somewhat dark and gloomy in there.

"It's queer for bushes to be growing so far out from shore," muttered Tom, "and it shows how shallow the water must be about here. You had better back water out of here, Danny."

Dalzell was about to do so when his glance fell on something that halted his arm.

In the same moment Tom Reade saw the object that had arrested Dan's attention.

From between the bushes peered a pair of deep-set, frightened eyes that looked out from the haggard, despairing face of a man whose head alone was visible.

Just for the moment neither Tom nor Dalzell could really guess whether the face belonged to the living or the dead. The sight caused cold shivers to run up and down their spines, for that face was ghastly and haunting in the extreme.

But quickly Tom Reade found his voice sufficiently to ask huskily:

"What's your trouble, my friend?"

IX. THE START OF A BAD NIGHT

Without noise, leaving barely a ripple behind, that head sank from view. It had vanished in an instant before the eyes of the two thoroughly startled high school boys.

"He's drowning now!" gasped Dan, as the head failed to bob up again into view. "Oh, Tom, we must save him!"

"Wait!" said Reade, in a quivering voice. His eyes expressed uncertainty as to how he should act.

"But he's drowning. You see, he hasn't come up again!" Dalzell insisted.

"Drowning—in water shallow enough for small bushes to grow from the bottom?" demanded Reade. "Of course not! But what does it mean—and why didn't the fellow speak?"

"Perhaps—i—i—it was a—dead man," suggested Dalzell.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," replied Reade. "I—I almost thought I saw the man's eyelids move."

"I thought so, too," agreed Dan, "but now I'm inclined to believe that we didn't. Wait! I'm going to get close to the bushes."

Dan drove the paddle into the water a few times, bringing the canoe up alongside the bushes, when it was seen that these were standing up from a square framework of wood.

"Now, what do you think of that?" asked Reade in perplexity. "These are freshly cut bushes, that have been fastened to this frame to-day. The frame will float wherever wind or current may take it. I thought this was shallow water. I'll soon know."

Tom had, among his tackle, a line with a sinker attached. He tossed the sinker over the side of the canoe, paying out the line until the sinker touched bottom. Then he pulled the line in again, carefully measuring by his arm as much of the line as was wet.

"Danny," he announced solemnly, "at this point the water is from twenty-seven to thirty feet deep."

"Then that man did drown!" breathed Dalzell, his face as white as chalk.

"Of course he did," Tom agreed, "provided he was alive when we saw him."

"But he had to be alive," protested Dan, "or else he couldn't have nailed the framework together and decorated it with branches from bushes."

"That is, if the man we saw made the frame," propounded Reade in a very solemn voice.

It was a shock to both of them. The whole incident had been uncanny and unreal, but the horror of that haggard, haunting face was still strong upon both of the beholders.

"Tom, we simply must get off our clothes and dive to see what we can do to find that poor fellow," urged Dalzell.

"All right," assented Reade. "I'll do all the diving myself, Danny, if you'll take command and give your orders. Where shall I dive? The bushes have already shifted position. We're floating away from the spot, too. Just where do you want me to make the first dive?"

"I don't know," Dan Dalzell confessed. "The whole affair has given me the creeps, I think."

"I know it has done that to me," smiled Tom unsteadily. "Whew! I'll dream of that face to-night—all night long! Dan, there seems to be just about one chance in a thousand that that man will reach shore. Let's keep the craft headed to the shore, and watch for some minutes to come. At the same time, if we see a sign of the poor fellow, we'll swim to him, or paddle to him as fast as we know how."

Both boys knew, inwardly, that they would be heartily glad to get away from what seemed plainly to them to be a haunted spot. Yet neither cared to admit his dread to the other. So, talking rather busily, they remained on the spot for fully another ten minutes.

"We won't see anything come out of the water now," Tom asserted at last. "Even if we do, it will be a drowned man."

"I guess we may as well get back to camp," Danny agreed. "Yet it is going to be an awfully creepy night for all of us, with this weird mystery of the lake on our minds."

"Don't paddle yet," begged Tom. "I'll give a hail, and see if that brings any answer."

Raising his voice, Reade shouted lustily:

"Hello, there, friend? Are you safe? Want any help?"

"Anything we can do for you, friend?" bawled Dan Dalzell, in his most resonant tone.

Only the mocking echoes of their own questions came back to them.

"Beat the water with the paddle. Danny," advised Reade after they had waited for some moments. "We've more than a mile to go. Whip up the water. If you get tired, pass the paddle back to me."

"I'm not sorry to get away from that place," breathed Dalzell, after at least a hundred lusty strokes.

"Nor I," confessed Reade. "I'm beginning to get a headache already from trying to figure out what it all meant. Danny, describe that haunting face just as you saw it."

"Ugh! I hate to think about it again," protested Dalzell.

"You'll think about it more than once," retorted Tom. "You won't be able to help that, I promise you. So go ahead and describe the face as you saw it."

Dan did so, Tom listening attentively.

"Then that wasn't a case of imagination," Tom declared gravely. "If we had imagined it, each would have seen a different face. But the face that you describe, Danny, is the one that I also saw. Pass back the paddle, please. I want a little exercise."

Tom still had the paddle when he shot the canoe in close to the camp.

"Any luck?" called Dave, who had already returned with a string of perch.

"Catch any bass?" was Dick's question.

"Did you even see anything?" laughed Greg Holmes.

"Did we see anything?" groaned Tom, as he sent the canoe's prow to land.

"Danny looks as though he had been seeing all sorts of things," chuckled Hazelton, as Dalzell stepped ashore.

"Don't ask me," gasped Danny Grin, with a shudder.

At this the faces of those who had remained behind sobered instantly.

"You won't eat any supper, if we tell you," Tom declared, as he came ashore while Dave held the painter of the canoe.

"I'll accept that challenge," laughed Prescott, as Dave and Tom drew the collapsible canoe up on shore. "Fire away as soon as you're ready, Mr. Reade."

Perch and potatoes were frying, coffee bubbling and Dick had been mixing some kind of boiled pudding that he had learned to make so that it would not cause acute indigestion.

"Better wait until after supper," Reade advised.

"No; we want the story now," Prescott declared firmly.

So Reade told of the strange apparition they had seen, with many additions to the tale from Danny.

"I decline to shudder," asserted Dave.

"That's just because you've only heard about the face, instead of seeing it," Tom muttered.

"Dick, what do you make of the whole affair?" asked Greg.

"I only wish I could guess the answer," Prescott made answer solemnly, "but I can't."

"What are we going to do about it?" asked Tom Reade.

"Let it alone," proposed Harry Hazelton.

"No, we won't," said Dick promptly. "Not unless we have to, just because of inability to find out anything. Fellows, it's too late to try to do anything in the darkness to-night. If the man were drowned, we couldn't help him, anyway. But we'll go over there to-morrow and try to find out whether there is any other answer to the riddle."

"You won't need any supper to-night, anyway," declared Reade, in a tone of grim triumph.

"That is where you lose," Prescott answered quietly. "You'll be hungry, too, Tom, when the food goes on the table."

However, neither Reade nor Danny Grin ate very heartily that evening. Every few moments the haunting face rose before their memories. It proved a dull evening, too, in camp. The sky became overcast. It looked so much like rain that Dick & Co. voted in favor of retiring early.

First of all, however, the canoe was hauled into the tent for safety. Then, with only one lantern burning dimly, six sturdy but wondering high school boys rolled themselves in their blankets.

Just as five of them were dozing off uneasily Dave Darrin's voice sounded quietly:

"That thing couldn't have been a joke rigged up on us, could it?"

"A joke?" rumbled Reade. "No, sir! That face was real enough to suit the most particular individual. No, sir; that face wasn't a joke, nor did the face look as though the man to whom it belonged had ever heard a joke in all his life."

"Suppose you fellows shut up until the sun is shining again," proposed Danny Grin, who had been fidgeting restlessly in his blanket.

"That's right," agreed Dick blandly. "All ghost stories ought to be told in the broad daylight."

"Just the same——" Tom began.

"Shut up—please!" came a chorus of protest.

All was quiet after that. Hours must have passed. All the boys were sleeping at least fairly well when air and earth shook with a mighty explosion.

Instantly six bewildered high school boys leaped to their feet in alarm.

X. POWDER MILLS, OR JUST WHAT?

"If that's a thunderstorm," muttered Greg Holmes, barely half awake, "then it's going to be a dandy!"

But Dick seized him by one arm and shook him.

"Come to your senses, Greg! That wasn't thunder."

"No; but what was it?" wondered Dave.

"I'm going to dress and find out," rejoined Dick sturdily. He sat on the edge of his canvas cot and began to pull on his clothing.

BANG! All were awake enough now to appreciate fully the force of this second jarring explosion.

"I wonder if there are any powder works off in this wilderness?" asked Danny Grin.

But Dick, who had now dressed as fully as he intended to do, save for the lacing of his shoes, now came back from the doorway of the tent with the lantern, the wick of which he was turning up.

"No powder mills in this part of the world," he declared. "But, gracious! The explosion seemed big enough."

Tom Reade stepped over to Prescott, whispering in the latter's ear:

"What if this is another chapter in the lake mystery that we struck this afternoon?"

"That's possible," nodded Dick.

"What are you two fellows whispering about?" called Hazelton.

"We're using whispers in case there's anyone else near enough to hear speaking voices," Prescott explained in a low tone.

That was enough to fan the curiosity of the others, who, partially dressed, crowded about Prescott and Reade.

Leaving the lantern in the tent, Dick & Co. gathered in the darkness in the open air.

"What do you make of it, Dick?" Dave asked.

"Just as much as you fellows do—no more," came the reply.

"If it isn't anything that carries danger to us," proposed Darrin, "we may as well go back and to bed."

"All who are sleepy enough may go back and turn in," Prescott suggested. "I'll stay up and watch for a while."

"So will I," promised Reade.

But it turned out that none of the party wanted to sleep. Even Darrin said he was interested enough in this newest mystery to stay up and try to fathom it.

"Whatever it is," smiled Dick, "it hasn't done us any harm."

"Oh, yes; there has been one casualty, at least," protested Holmes. "The explosion has caused a compound fracture in my bump of curiosity."

"There don't seem to be any more explosions," suggested Dick Prescott, after a few moments had passed, and some of the boys were yawning. "Anyone want to turn in?"

No one wished to do so, however.

"If we can't find out anything to-night," murmured Dick, in a low voice, "we'll at least make a strong effort in that direction after breakfast to-morrow morning."

"We have the lake mystery on for after breakfast," urged Hazelton.

"There's probably a connection between the lake mystery and the big explosions," whispered Tom Reade wisely. "Fellows, I've a notion that Danny Grin and I unintentionally bumped into someone else's business of some queer kind. Now the people who are peevish with us are trying to chase us out of these woods. At least, that's my idea."

"It will take something more than noise to chase us," smiled Dick coolly. "Our ear drums are as sound as the next fellow's. Just the same, I wish we might find out something about this mystery. If there's another explosion like that last one, then some of us ought to travel straight in the direction of the noise."

"And run straight into the hard, swift punch that is behind that noise!" muttered Danny Grin, with one of those facial contortions that had earned him his nickname.

"Whoever starts to playing with a boy's curiosity must be ready to abide by the consequences," chuckled Prescott. "Now, if anyone has started something against us, then we'll run the rascal to the earth."

"You don't suppose it's Dodge's work?" whispered Greg.

Before Dick could answer Darrin broke in with an emphatic:

"Not much! The lake mystery affair is one of too large calibre for Bert Dodge's poor, anaemic brain. There's something bigger and smarter than a mere Dodge behind the doings of this night."

"It's one o'clock, fellows," said Dick, after walking over to the lantern for a glimpse at his watch. "Tom, Greg and I will stay up until three o'clock and be ready to jump out together at the first sign of anything happening. The rest of you turn in and get some sleep. We'll call you at three o'clock and then take our turn at the pillow."

"You'll call us, of course, if anything happens?" asked Dave.

"If another powder mill blows up," chuckled Tom, "you won't need to be called. You'll be out here on the jump."

Dave, Dan and Harry thereupon turned in. Knowing that others were on watch the trio in the tent were all sound asleep within five minutes.

Only the sighing of the wind through the trees, the occasional splash of a leaping fish in the lake, and the subdued, musical hum of tiny night insects came to the ears of Dick and his fellow watchers.

Greg was soon yawning. Tom, for want of something better to do, began describing all over again the strange apparition he and Dalzell had seen that afternoon. Greg, finding the "creeps" in Tom's narration to be stronger than the interest, shivered and withdrew to a spot beyond the reach of Tom's whispers.

Not long after Greg, his back propped against a tree trunk, was sound asleep.

Tom liked to talk. Prescott was a good listener, putting in a question now and then.

So at least another hour passed. Then——

Boo-oom!

That crash was so close at hand that it seemed as though the earth must open.

Tom's first startled glance was at the sky. Then, with a whisking sound, several fragments of something passed over their heads.

"We're being bombarded?" gasped Tom inquiringly.

"This is getting too noisy to be interesting," protested Greg, waking and leaping over to the place where his chums stood.

"I thought you fellows were going to put a stop to that racket!" complained Darry from the tent.

Dick Prescott's whole thought and effort had been centered on the task of placing the location of that latest explosion.

"You fellows look after the camp," Dick called in a low voice to those in the tent. "Come on, Tom and Greg!"

His two chums hurried to overtake him as the young leader rushed off in the darkness. Prescott was traveling up the slope in a direction that ran in an oblique line from the lake front.

"Are you sure it was just exactly in this direction?" whispered Reade, as he reached Dick's side.

"In this direction as nearly as I could judge," Dick affirmed.

For some moments they traveled onward. Then they halted to listen.

"I don't know whether I'm any good at judging distances," Dick whispered, "but it seemed to me that whatever exploded was not much more than three hundred yards from camp."

"About that distance, I should say," Tom agreed.

"Then we've gone about as far as the place of the explosion. Suppose we keep very quiet and listen."

"Ugh!" grunted Greg. "I hope the earth doesn't blow up under our feet."

"Go back to camp, if you're nervous," smiled Dick, but Greg remained where he was.

"I'm going out a little way and prowl," whispered Dick, pointing in the direction he had chosen. "Tom, why don't you travel in about the opposite direction?"

Reade nodded.

"Where shall I go?" asked Greg.

"You had better remain right here," Prescott whispered. "If you should hear either of us yell for help then you could start in the direction of the sound."

"Then I'll get into those bushes," whispered Greg. "When you come back, come straight to the bushes, so I'll know that it's one of my own crowd. If any strangers appear, I'll listen to 'em if they halt near here, or trail them if they try to go past here."

Dick nodded. This seemed about the best that could be done. Of course, back in camp, he had three more good and courageous fellows to draw upon as added forces, but with such strange doings afoot in the night it didn't seem wise to call the others away from the camp. Above all, the camp had to be watched and guarded.

In half an hour Dick returned. He had found nothing to throw light on the puzzle of the night. Tom was back already, having beaten Dick to Greg's hiding place by about two minutes.

"We may as well go back to camp," whispered Greg.

"Not much!" Prescott retorted. "If anyone is trying to do anything to us, then we want to run the mystery down and put an end to it. My idea is that the best thing we can do is to get up to the road, post ourselves at fair intervals and watch to see if anyone should pass."

"Correct!" clicked Reade. "And I think that would have been the best plan in the first instance."

"If the powder-mill explosions are to keep up through the night," hinted Tom, "then there ought to be another one due within a few minutes. In that case our tormentors may be getting ready to plan something now. So let's hike for the road at once."

Dick led the way, all three boys moving as noiselessly as they could. Prescott posted his friends, then chose his own post, so that they were stationed at intervals of about a hundred yards. All had hiding places within plain view of this rough country road.

Now the time dragged again. Strain their ears as they might, none of these young outposts of Dick & Co. could hear a single suspicious sound. They must have remained there all of three quarters of an hour.

Bang! sounded a terrific crash. Tom and Greg, without showing themselves in the road, hurriedly, silently reached their leader.

"Pshaw!" uttered Prescott in disgust. "With all our care we were on the wrong side of camp to be near the explosion. Come along, now, but don't make any noise if you can help it, and don't step out into the road. We'll go straight toward that latest noise. If it takes all summer we're simply bound to find out who is trying to blow up these woods just to scare out a few little rabbits like ourselves!"

XI. IN A FEVER "TO FIND OUT"

Our trio had nearly reached what they judged to be the scene of the latest explosion when Dick suddenly gave a low, sharp "hist," at the same time bending over to the ground while still peering ahead.

Palpitating with excitement, Tom and Greg halted, also looking.

Out of the shadow ahead emerged something only vaguely outlined in the dark. Whether wild animal or human being it would be hard to say there in the darkness. Indeed, the slight sound caused by its progress close to the road had more to do with warning Dick and his friends than anything their eyes saw at first.

"Come on!" whispered Dick, heading suddenly for the road. In a jiffy Tom and Greg were also in hot pursuit, though young Prescott managed to keep somewhat in the lead.

But the object of their pursuit took alarm, too, and gaining the road, flew like the wind.

"Hold on there, you!" challenged Dick. "We want a little conversation with you at once."

At that vocal warning the fugitive put on an even better burst of speed.

"It must be a man!" exclaimed Dick. "He evidently understood me."

"No use for you to try to get away!" shouted Reade. "We intend to get you if we have to chase you all the way to the seaboard."

That was enough to make the fugitive veer suddenly and dart in under the trees. Tom vented an exclamation of disappointment, for he knew the chances were easy for escape in the deep shadows of the forest.

At that instant Dick raised his right hand. In it he held a small stone that he had picked up at the first instant of discovering the presence of the stranger.

Now Dick threw the stone, with the best judgment that he could command in the darkness.

Ahead there went up a cry, as though of pain. Then all three pursuers distinctly heard an angry voice say!

"Hang him! He hit me in the heel!"

If there were any reply to this from a confederate of the injured fugitive neither Dick nor his chums heard it.

After a minute all three stopped at a low uttered order from young Prescott.

"Hush!" whispered Dick.

"Sh!" confirmed Tom Reade.

As they stood there in the forest not a sound of another human being was audible.

For some five minutes the trio of high school boys stood without stirring from their tracks.

"We've lost the trail," whispered Dick at last. "We could remain here, of course, waiting for more things to happen, but my belief is that daylight would find us still standing here, like so many foiled dummies. We might as well return to camp. What do you think?"

"Yes; we'd better go back to camp," assented Tom.

"I'm agreeable," murmured Greg

So back to camp they went, going by the open road as much of the way as served their purpose.

"There's the camp," muttered Tom, as they caught sight of a light between the trees. "Why the fellows have started a campfire."

"What do you say if we slip up on them and give them something to jump about?" laughed Greg.

"That might work with some people," negatived Dick, "but Darry is there, and he's impulsive. He might half kill us before he discovered his mistake. O-o-o-h, Dave!"

"Hello!" answered Darrin, coming away from the campfire. Then he waited until the trio were close at hand before he went on:

"I judge you didn't have any luck."

"We got close to one of the scamps," muttered Tom, "whom Dick seems to have hit on the heel with a stone, but he slipped away from us under the trees."

"It's only half an hour to dawn," yawned Dave, looking at his watch. "We can turn in, now, I guess, for the rascals must be about through with the guessing match they've put up for us."

"We could turn in now," suggested Danny Grin. "We don't have to go to sleep, you know, but we could lie in our blankets and talk the time away until dawn. The campfire will keep going until after daylight comes on."

That seemed rather a sensible course. Dick nodded, and all hands, after Darry had thrown a few more sticks on the fire, went into the tent, undressed, donned pajamas and slipped in under a single thickness of blanket apiece, and lay there talking.

Yet it proved to be a case of gape and yawn. One after another their eyes closed and more regular breathing started.

Dick Prescott was the last one to drop off. Yet he had barely more than lost himself in slumberland when there came a blast so close at hand that, to the boys, it seemed as though they must have been blown from their cots.

"That was right up toward the road!" panted Dave Darrin, leaping from his cot barefooted and clad only in pajamas. "Don't stop to dress. Come on! Chase 'em!"

"Go as far as you like!" chuckled Dick, stopping to pull on his shoes and fasten them, as did most of the others. Hazelton went only to the doorway of the tent, but Danny Grin followed Darrin, keeping at the latter's heels.

Prescott and Reade were hardly sixty seconds later in heading up the slope toward the road, Greg and Harry remaining at the camp.

As they came out from under the trees and into the road Dick discovered that the first signs of dawn were appearing. In a few minutes more it would be possible to see clearly over a stretch of road more than half a mile in length. Already objects were beginning to take shape. Dave was coming back, followed by Dan. Both were limping slightly, for neither boy was accustomed to traveling barefoot and both had picked up slight stone bruises in their progress.

"Did you sight anything or anyone?" called Dick.

"No," grumbled Darrin, in deep disgust. "The odds are all against us, anyway. The scoundrels know which way they are going; we can only guess at their course."

"One thing looks rather certain, at any rate," yawned Dick, covering his mouth with his hand. "Whoever the unknowns are, they were trying only to bother us. Or, if they were trying to injure us, they were rank amateurs at the destructive game.

"But what was it that blew up, anyway?" queried Dave.

"It sounded like a keg of gunpowder each time," Tom declared. "Yet to carry around five kegs of gunpowder would call for a lot of muscular work."

"I'm going back to camp to put on my shoes," Dave declared.

"So am I," Danny Grin added.

"We'll wait here for you," said Dick. "When you come back there may be light enough for us to look into matters a little."

Dave and Dan returned in a little more than five minutes afterwards. The daylight was now becoming stronger.

"Are Greg and Harry keeping awake?" was Prescott's first question.

"They are," nodded Darrin.

"Then they can be trusted to look after the camp," Dick continued.

"And to look after the canoe," Reade amended.

"Now, we'll explore the woods a bit," Prescott went on. "We know about where we heard the explosions, and we'll look for whatever evidence we can find."

For this purpose each explorer went by himself. Ten minutes later Dave Darrin set up a loud hello. This brought the others to him on the run.

"Give us another call," demanded Dick.

"Here!" called Dave, from the depths of the woods.

Dick went in, followed by Tom and Dan.

"I've found this much," Dave announced, holding up a scorched bit of colored paper. It was such paper as is used for the outer wrapping of fireworks.

Dick took the fragment of paper, reading therefrom the title, "The Sploderite Pyrotechnic Co."

"Nothing but fireworks, after all," ejaculated Danny Grin in great contempt, now that it was broad daylight.

"But I would like to have seen the fireworks before they blew up," retorted Tom Reade. "They were surely the loudest I ever heard. I don't believe anything but the heaviest cannon could make as much noise."

"Whoever touched off fireworks like these," uttered Dave, "didn't care a hang whether or not he set the woods on fire."

"There was no fire danger," Dick rejoined. "The grass and everything in these forests is as green as can be. But let's look about and see if we can't find evidences of the explosion at this point."

"There ought to be a good-sized hole in the ground right under where this piece of fireworks exploded," Tom guessed. "We ought to find, not far from here, some evidences of what explosives can do in ripping up the ground."

"Now I remember that one of the explosions in the night sent something whizzing through the air over our heads."

"Pieces of the pasteboard enclosing the mine, bomb or whatever kind of fireworks it was," Dick suggested. "But let's look for other debris around here."

That single bit of scorched paper, however, was all that any of them could find.

Tom discovered a spot where he thought the ground had been blackened, but Dave thought the blackened appearance due to humus soil, and so nothing came of the argument.

"I think," yawned Dick, "this search will lead to the same result that the others did during the night. About all we can do is to go back to camp."

The sun was up by the time that all six members of Dick & Co. were once more gathered about the remains of their campfire.

"I don't know what you fellows are going to do," yawned Tom Reade. "As for me, at present a nap looks better than any shower bath or breakfast that was ever invented. No matter how much objection I hear, I'm going to get an hour or two more of sleep."

That idea met with rather a hearty reception. Within three minutes all six high school boys were lying between blankets again, composed for sleep.

No more explosions came to disturb their slumbers, which were deep and broken only when at last Dick Prescott called out:

"Fellows, we're regular Rip Van Winkles! It's half-past nine o'clock!"

"And we've that lake mystery to solve today!" uttered Greg Holmes, leaping up.

XII. DICK MAKES A FIND

"Now, I don't know how it is going to hit the rest of you," remarked Tom Reade, as he put down his coffee cup at the end of the hasty breakfast, "but I'll confess that I'm not wholly keen about solving the puzzle of the lake mystery."

"Why not?" challenged Dave in astonishment.

"It's just like this," Tom went on. "Solving human riddles is all right in the daytime, but it's likely to spoil our rest at night. I can't help feeling that last night's Sploderite function was a mark of displeasure over our unwelcome interest in the lake mystery."

"Suppose we grant that," Dick answered, "yet how would last night's rascals expect us to connect the bang concert with Tom and Dan's canoe trip and discovery yesterday afternoon?"

"There's something in that idea," Reade admitted. "The unknowns might hardly expect us to show as much human reasoning power as all that. Yet I'm of the opinion that we'll continue to rest badly at night as long as we continue to feel any unhealthy curiosity about the lake mystery. In other words, my belief is that our interest in the affairs of perfect strangers is regarded by the unknowns as rudeness that must be rebuked."

"I don't care a hang about the lake mystery, anyway," gaped Dan, who was giving forth a series of yawns, his mouth only partially hidden by his right hand.

"There's just one strong point to the other side of the question," Dick argued. "There's a very fair amount of reason to believe that a man may have been drowned late yesterday afternoon, and that Tom and Dan saw him go down for the last time. That probability existing, I believe we are bound, as good citizens, to see if we can find any trace of a drowned man. If we can, then as good citizens it is clearly our further duty to report the matter to the authorities. If we can't find the remains of the drowned man, then I am under the impression that, at the least, Tom and Dan must report to some county officer just what they did see, and the county can then take up the question in any way it pleases. First of all, however, we ought to look for the body of a drowned man."

This view prevailing, Tom and Dan launched the canoe, Dick entering as passenger, while the other two handled the paddles.

Some brisk work took the canoe over, as nearly as Tom could judge, to the spot where the haunting face had been seen so briefly on the afternoon before.

Under the bright morning sun the waters were clear here, though the bottom could not be seen.

"Paddle half a mile up the lake, then down," Dick ordered.

This was done, Prescott and the paddlers keeping a sharp lookout. No body of a drowned man was seen, however, either on the surface or under the water.

"I don't believe anyone was drowned," re marked Dick at last. "There is no wind today, and hardly any such thing as current on this placid water. Whoever the man was, he got ashore."

"That's my belief," agreed Reade.

"Where's that brush arrangement?" asked Dan suddenly. "That frame all trimmed with green boughs."

Nor was this to be seen, either, though an object of that size would have been visible at any point on the water within half a mile.

"The man got ashore, all right, and he took care of the bush-trimmed frame as well," was Prescott's conclusion. "Whoever the man was, whatever happened, I don't believe that anything tragic happened in the water. For that matter, fellows, isn't it possible that, in the gathering gloom, and with the sky somewhat overcast, you were deceived about the ghastly, haunted look in that face? Isn't it likely that the look you thought you saw in the man's face was merely an effect of the unusual light of late yesterday afternoon?"

Tom shook his head emphatically.

"Why don't you ask us," demanded Dan ironically, "if it weren't just imagination on our part that we saw the face at all?"

"I don't doubt your having seen the face," Dick replied. "That wasn't anything that the light supplied."

"Then where is the man?" quizzed Dalzell.

"Safe on shore somewhere, beyond a doubt," Dick answered

"Then the chase takes us ashore, doesn't it?" asked Dan.

"Yes; if we're going to follow up the matter any further," Dick replied.

"We ought to follow it up," Reade insisted.

"Why?" asked Prescott.

"For one thing," smiled Tom, "it will give us something interesting to do."

"Should we find our interest in meddling with other folks' business?" wondered their leader.

"We've a right to, when those people come around and spoil our night's rest for us," Tom retorted.

"It was a bit like a challenge, wasn't it?" Dick laughed.

"Besides," Dan urged, "we certainly saw enough yesterday afternoon to show us that there is something tragic in the air around this sleepy old lake. If anyone is in trouble we ought to try to help that one out of trouble. And there was real, aching trouble in that face if ever I saw evidences of trouble."

"I guess we'll put in part of the day looking into the matter," Dick assented.

"Where shall we land?" asked Dalzell.

"As nearly as possible opposite the exact spot where you saw the man's head," Prescott made answer.

"Over there where that bent birch shows between the two chestnut trees," announced Reade, pointing with his paddle.

"Pull for that place," Dick ordered.

In a few minutes the canoe was drawn up along the shore so that Dick could step on land.

"You'd better come with me, Tom," said Prescott.

"And I'm the nifty little boat-tender who stays here and dozes in the shade?" asked Danny Grin, with a grimace.

"Are you good and strong this morning?" queried Dick, with a smile.

"Strong enough to walk, anyway," Dan retorted.

"Then perhaps you're strong enough to paddle back across the lake and bring over two more fellows. Then, when you get back here, leave one of the pair here in the canoe, and we will get them to keep it a hundred feet or more off shore. We don't want our craft destroyed. And be sure, Dan, that the fellow who stays behind on the other side of the lake understands that he's to stick right by the camp and watch it for all he's worth."

"I've got my orders," clicked Danny Grin, with a mock salute.

"Then let's see how well you can paddle alone."

Dalzell gave a few swift, strong turns of the paddle that sent the light canvas canoe darting over the water.

"Now, come along," urged Tom. "I'm anxious to get busy this morning."

First of all, the two high school boys walked up the lake shore for some distance, keeping their eyes wide open and all their senses on the alert. Then, returning, they walked for a considerable distance down the shore.

"There are our reinforcements coming," announced Tom, pointing across the lake. "Danny and his load will be here within fifteen minutes."

"We'll wait for the other fellows, before going away from the shore," Dick proposed. "If we started now they wouldn't know where to find us."

Returning to the landing place, Dick silently waved his hat until he caught the attention of Dave Darrin, seated in the bow of the canoe, who answered the signal just as silently.

Presently the craft came up to the shore.

"Who's going to stay in the canoe?" Dick inquired.

"I am," Harry Hazelton declared dolefully. "We drew lots on the other side. Greg drew the shortest twig, so he had to stay at the camp. I got the next shortest twig, so my job is boat-tender."

Dave and Dan stepped ashore. Heaving a sigh, Harry paddled out on the lake some hundred and fifty feet from land.

"Now, how are we going to beat up the country on this fine July morning?" Tom wanted to know.

Dick stood looking at the surrounding ground.

"I think I know as good a plan as any," he announced, after a pause. "Dave, you and I will walk down the lake, using our eyes and ears. Tom and Dan will go in the opposite direction. Each pair will keep along until our watches show that we've been going ten minutes. Then we will walk up the slope a hundred steps and turn toward the centre, meeting probably about the end of the second ten minutes. After that, if we decide to do so, we can go further inland from the lake. If there's a house or hut, or any fellow camping out in this neighborhood we ought to find him without much trouble. What do you fellows say to my plan?"

"It's about as systematic as anything could be," Dave agreed. "But what if one pair of us find something?"

"We'll try our best to communicate with the other pair," Dick rejoined. "Suppose, Dave, that you and I run into something interesting and don't want to leave it? Tom and Dan, not meeting us at the appointed place, will know enough to keep right on over our course until they find us."

"That looks plain enough," nodded Reade thoughtfully.

"All right, then," Dick declared. "Now we'll start."

He and Dave started off at a swinging gait. The first time Prescott turned to look behind him Reade and Danny Grin had already vanished.

Dick kept close to the shore, Dave moving in a parallel line a few steps up the slope.

"There isn't any hut, lodge or camp down there," Dave called softly, "or else we'd have seen it from our camp on the other side of the lake."

"I know it," Dick nodded. "What I'm trying to do is to see if I can find any hint, on the shore, of how that fellow landed yesterday, without Tom or Danny catching sight of him. Of course, a very clever swimmer could have gone quite a distance under water. and I want to see if I can find any sign of anything that would have hidden his landing from the fellows in the canoe."

"Oh!" nodded Dave understandingly.

The full ten minutes of searching passed without the slightest trace of a discovery.

"Halt," Dick called up smilingly. "Now, join me, Darry, while I count off the hundred steps up the slope."

This done, the chums started backward, keeping a course as nearly parallel with the shore as was possible.

"Now, try to be keener than ever," Dick urged, as Dave paced off another twenty steps higher up. "We're in a growth of deeper forest, with a bigger tangle of underbrush and it will be easy enough to overlook something."

The two boys trudged on. They were five minutes on their way back, perhaps, when Dick heard a sudden scrambling in the underbrush not far away. Then Prescott caught sight of a human figure, yet so fleetingly that he could have given no description of it.

"Is that you, Darry?" he called sharply.

But it wasn't, for no answer came back, save for the slight sound of someone going through the brush farther on.

"Dave! Darry!" shouted Prescott. "Here! Quickly!"

Then Dick dashed on in pursuit, calling again and again until Dave came in sight and joined in the chase.

"What was it?" panted Dave, as he came within hailing distance.

"Someone running away from me," Dick explained.

"What did he look like?"

"I didn't have a chance to see. Let's travel hot-foot."

Yet presently Dick halted. Dave stopped beside him.

"We've passed him; he has doubled on us," uttered Darrin in a tone of intense chagrin. "We belong in the primary class in wood lore."

Then, suddenly, they heard a slight noise again. Forward they dashed. Now they came out to a place where the ground was more open. Before the two high school boys rose a great boulder of rock, its front sloping backward, and running up to a height of fifty feet or more. They had already seen this boulder from the water.

"That fellow ran into the open, but he didn't have time to cross it," announced Dick in a tone of conviction, as the pair halted at the foot of the boulder. "He could have gone up this side; there are crevices enough for foothold. But in that case we'd have seen him."

Dave stood plucking absent-mindedly at the leaves of a bush in a clump that grew at the foot of the boulder. Suddenly Dick glanced down, noting that his feet were on boggy ground, though the surrounding soil was firm enough.

"Is there a spring running out of the solid rock?" wondered Dick, reaching out and pulling one of the bushes forward.

Then he gave a sudden shout of discovery:

"Look here, Dave! We're on the track of it! These bushes conceal the mouth of a cave! This is where our fugitive has gone!"

XIII. PERHAPS TEN THOUSAND YEARS OLD

"By Jove!" gasped Dave, also bending back a bush and glaring down, his eyes wide open with interest.

"That's where our man went," Dick whispered.

"Not a doubt of it," Dave assented. "We'll signal the other fellows, and then get him at our leisure."

"Unless there are other openings to this cave," Dick hinted.

"That's so! The fellow may be a quarter of a mile away from here already," Darrin quivered. "Let's not lose any time. I'll go in there first."

Dave was on his knees, quivering with eagerness, dominated by purpose, when Dick grabbed him, hauling him back.

"Let me alone," growled Dave. "Don't interfere with me!"

"But you don't know what you might run into in there, Darry," Prescott insisted firmly. "For one thing, you have no idea how many villains may have their secret home in there."

"Then, what are you going to do?" Darry demanded, looking up.

"I'm going to watch, right here, while you go forward and find Tom and Dan. Bring them here, and then we'll decide what ought to be done."

"That's rather slow," hot-headed Darry objected.

"It is, and a heap safer," Dick contended. "Hot-foot it after Tom and Dan. I'll stay right here and see to it that the mouth of the cave doesn't run away. Start—at once, Darry, please! Don't let us waste time."

Knowing how stubborn Dick could be when he knew that he was wholly right, Dave lost no time in argument. He sprinted away, and presently Dick heard faint echoes of Darry's signaling, "hoo-hoo!"

A few minutes later the trio came up at a dog trot.

Not one of them spoke, as all had lost their breath in their haste. Tom, now in the lead, dashed up to where Dick stood on guard a few yards away from the bushes.

"Over there," nodded Dick, pointing to the bushes.

Tom and Dan pulled the bushes aside curiously.

"If we're going into that cave we may as well cut the bushes down," murmured Reade, producing a pocket knife. "Any objections, Chief?"

"No," smiled Dick, "and I'm not the Big Chief, either. Cut the bushes down, if you want. Move over, and I'll give you some help."

Within a short time the bushes had been cut down close to the ground, revealing an irregular shaped opening in the cave. This aperture was about three feet high and some five feet in width.

"Did you bring that pocket flash lamp, Tom?" asked Dick suddenly.

"Thank goodness, I did," replied Reade, producing the lamp.

Dick took it and crawled a few feet into the hole.

"There's water all along on the floor here," he called, "but just a dribble. Come in here and you'll find that you can stand up."

It needed no urging to induce the other boys to follow. Then they stood up, in almost complete darkness, save when the flashlight showed them their surroundings.

Some parts of the cave rose to a height of perhaps sixteen feet. Twelve feet was about the average height. From what the boys could see as they moved along, the cave extended for some sixty feet.

"I don't believe there's anyone in here except ourselves," muttered Darry in disgust, peering all around him. "In that case, we are wasting our time in this cave. Phew! How cold it is in here!"

"And well it might be," laughed Dick. "Do you see that mass just ahead of us?"

"What is it?" asked Dan. "Flash the light on it."

"Come over and look at it," Dick went on. "No one could live in this cold place. It is chilling me to the bone, just to stand here. And now you see why that little trickle of water keeps moving out through the mouth of the cave. Fellows, we're in one of nature's icehouses."

"But we're not after ice," Dave protested.

"We won't turn down ice in the wilderness, when we can find it in July," Dick rejoined.

"Not much!" answered practical Tom Reade. "Why, fellows, ice is just what we need at the camp. Let's get a closer look at it and make plans for an ice-box over at the camp."

"But I want to follow that man of mystery," protested Dave.

"Go ahead, David, little giant," Dick laughed. "We won't stop you. But we've lost our man of mystery, anyway, and this cave contains something that we really do want. Tom, you're the mathematician of the party. How much ice is there here?"

"If I could see better I could tell you better," sniffed Reade. "Hundreds of tons of it, anyway."

"How did the stuff get here?" asked Dan wonderingly.

Dick was now at the edge of the ice pile, and flashed the light at the roof of the cavern.

"See the rifts in the rock up there?" he asked. "Water must have leaked in here during the heavy winter rains. It was cold water, too. Then, in extra cold spells, such as this country experiences, the water must have frozen. As heat doesn't get in here in warm weather the ice may have been here for generations. Fellows, we may be looking upon ice that was here when George Washington was a boy."

"I've read, somewhere," declared Tom soberly, "that icebergs that float down from the polar regions in spring often represent ice that is at least ten thousand years old. Fellows, some of this very ice may have been here in this cave long, long before Julius Caesar went into the soldiering business!"

That thought had somewhat of an awesome effect upon Dick & Co. The four high school boys felt as though they were in the presence of great antiquity.

"But the practical side of it," declared Tom, "is that we must devise the best way of cutting some of this ice and getting it across the lake to the camp."

"Oh, you can break off enough for making ice water," replied Dave Darrin impatiently, "and take it over in the canoe, though the spring water is cold enough for anybody."

"All of Dave's thoughts are still on the man of mystery," Dick declared, with a chuckle.

"It's much more interesting than standing here figuring on how to get ice that we don't need," retorted Darry.

"Now, as to moving this stuff to the camp," Tom went on, "it seems to me——"

"Of course," laughed Dick. "It has already struck you that we can fell a few small trees and build a raft on which we can tow a few hundred pounds of ice at a time."

"Oh, pshaw!" fidgeted Dave. "I am anxious to find the man of mystery."

"That isn't anything practical," scoffed Tom Reade, "while in hot weather a good supply of ice is eminently practical."

"You'll think there's a practical side to the man of mystery and his cronies when to-night comes, and there's so much noise about the camp that we miss another night's rest," hinted Darry sagely.

"Humph!" was Tom's greeting to that assertion. "I don't know but you're right."

"Well, we know where the ice is," remarked Dick. "We can get it at our convenience. Darry, we'll follow you in pursuit of your man of mystery. Come out of here, fellows."

Dick led the way out of the cave, flashing the light as he walked. All four blinked when they found themselves out in the sunlight.

"Now, which way are we going, David, little giant?" demanded Tom good-humoredly.

Now that he was put to it, Dave had to confess that he didn't know.

"Let's make a swift, thorough search all around here, and see if we can find any footprints not made by ourselves," Dave suggested rather weakly, at last.

This was done, and faithfully, for, now that they were out in the sunlight again, the interest in the mystery began to return. It grew stronger as they searched. At last, however, after more than an hour of fruitless effort that offered not an atom of promise, even Darry was willing to give it up for the time, at any rate.

"Let's keep on walking along the slope, then," Dick suggested, "until we come in sight of the canoe."

As they walked along they came to a brook that, at this point, was nearly the width of a creek. The water ran noisily down over the stones, save here and there where there were deep pools.

"It's narrow enough, at one point below here, to jump over," Dave volunteered.

"Thank you," replied Dick, "but just at present I'm not for jumping over this brook."

"Well, then, what on earth does interest you?" Dan asked. "This isn't the first time you've seen this stream. You passed it down by the lake, though down there it runs more smoothly."

"I know," Dick nodded. "I remember the fallen tree we used for a bridge, and I'm simply ashamed of myself that I didn't think more about this stream at the time—but my head was then too full of the lake mystery and the chap with the haunting face. But now——"

"Well?" demanded Tom impatiently.

"Reade, old fellow," Dick answered solemnly, turning back from peering at one of the quiet pools in the creek, "you're a wonder at black bass fishing, no doubt. My tastes ran to another form of sport. Mr. Morton taught me trout fishing; he lent me his tackle before we started, and I have it over at the camp now. Fellows, I believe, from the looks of things, that this stream is well stocked with trout. At all events, I mean to have a try at it."

"To-morrow?" asked Dave.

"No, siree! This afternoon—-just as soon as possible! A little while ago we were talking about ferrying ice over to the camp. Instead, we'll ferry the camp over here, and keep the cave just as it is for our ice-house. Do you fellows know that brook trout make the most delicious eating to be had when the cook knows his business? I do, for Mr. Morton has cooked trout for me in the woods. Besides, brook trout are growing scarce these days. If we can make a good haul, we can get a pretty big price per pound for them! We have ice, now, and we could carry a lot of trout to market on our push cart, on top of enough ice to keep them. Come on! Back to camp! We'll shift it to this side of the lake at once. This crowd can't do better than to work out this trout stream. I know the trout are there! I can smell 'em! Tom, I've got an important job for you!"

XIV. MORE MYSTERY IN THE AIR

It was nearly dark, after an afternoon of hard work for five members of the party, and an afternoon of wonderful sport for Dick Prescott.

A crude raft had been built. That part of the work had been easy, and it was swiftly performed. But three trips with the small raft had been needed to bring over the tent, the supplies, the push cart and everything belonging to the old camp.

Now the new camp stood pitched at a short distance from the cave, but near to the edge of the lake. The tent had been put up in a natural clearing, behind a line of timber, so that the canvas was not visible from the other side of the lake.

At trout fishing Dick had proved himself more than an expert.

Now that darkness was coming, Dick was bending over a low fire, watching a frying pan in which four speckled beauties, well dipped in batter, were sizzling merrily.

"This is the finest food I've ever had," declared Greg Holmes, swallowing another mouthful of trout and leaning back with a contented sigh.

"It certainly is great," agreed Dave Darrin. "Fellows, I've wasted some of my life in the past, for I never before knew the taste of brook trout."

"I tried 'em once," said Reade, "but they didn't taste as fine as these. With trout, I've heard, a tremendous lot depends upon the way they're cooked."

"Of course the cooking has a lot to do with bringing out the full flavor," Dick admitted modestly. "But, Tom, perhaps you hadn't done any hard work before eating trout that time. Exercise brings hunger, and hunger is the best sauce that food can have—as we all ought to know."

"Exercise?" repeated Tom, with a laugh. "Yes; I've had that this afternoon, all right. You had me guessing when you told me you had such an important job for me. I didn't know, then, that you wanted me to boss the raft building and transporting the camp over here. It was exercise, all right. We ought to have taken an entire day to it."

Dick rose with the frying pan, dropping hot trout on four plates in turn, omitting only Holmes.

"You shall have a trout out of the next serving, Greg," Dick promised.

"I'm not worrying about myself," Greg returned. "But are you going to have anything left for yourself, Dick?"

"I'm not worrying about that, either," laughed Prescott. "It was mighty nice of you fellows to do all the work this afternoon, and leave me to enjoy myself all the time at sport. So the trout belong to you fellows."

"I don't suppose you worked at all, Dick," said Tom quizzically. "Of course whipping up and down a stream in rubber boots, over stones and all sorts of obstacles, isn't anything like work."

"It would be pretty hard work for a fellow who didn't like trout fishing, I suppose," Dick answered. "But, to me, it was only so much glorious sport. Here's your trout, Greg. Who else wants some more?"

"Don't ask foolish questions," chuckled Danny Grin.

But at last the five boys had to admit that they had eaten their fill out of the splendid result of Dick's afternoon of sport. There were still several trout left, all cleaned and ready to be dipped in the batter.

"Now, you sit down at the table, and let us wait on you," urged Greg, going over to Dick.

Dave took hold of one of young Holmes' suspender straps, pulling him back.

"You simpleton," expostulated Darry, "are you going to spoil Dick's reward by letting a chump cook attend to the trout? Dick wants to cook his trout for himself, but we'll do everything else. I'll appoint myself to make the coffee for all hands."

Dick soon had a pan full of trout ready for his own plate. As he seated himself at the table he was fully conscious of how tired and sore he was from the afternoon of whipping up and down stream after these handsome, speckled fish, but he was careful not to admit his fatigue to the others, who, also, were very tired.

Dick had to fry a second pan of trout, eating the last one of the lot he had caught, ere he found his appetite satisfied.

Then, with only the light of a lantern on the table, the boys sat about sipping their coffee and feeling supremely contented with their day of effort and its results.

"There are not so many mosquitoes over here," Tom announced.

"They haven't found us out yet," chuckled Danny Grin. "They will do so, later."

"I'm ready for bed any time the word comes," confessed Harry Hazelton.

"But, see here, fellows," suggested Dave soberly, "we're now right in the enemy's country. That is to say, we're on the same side of the lake with the man of mystery and his companions, if he has any. I don't doubt that resentful eyes have watched the erecting of this camp on its present site."

"Sorry to have hurt anyone's feelings," yawned Tom. "Still, I guess we've as much right here as anyone else."

"But the point is this," Dave went on. "Last night some persons must have crossed the lake in order to annoy us. To-night we're on the same side of the lake with them. We'll be much more accessible to the people who object so strenuously to our presence."

"Where did these unknown people find a boat for crossing the lake?" queried Reade. "We couldn't find one anywhere until the canoe was left at our camp."

"Anyone might have a boat or canoe here, and keep it hidden easily enough when not in use," Dave asserted. "Just as we—have brought our canoe up here and hidden it in the tent, for instance. Now, we'll all have to admit that we're extremely likely to have unwelcome visitors here to-night? Are we going to keep a guard?"

"It might not be a bad idea to keep someone on watch through the night," Dick suggested.

"I'll stand the first watch trick," proposed Dave. "It need be only an hour long. I'll drink some more coffee, and then walk a while, so as to be sure to keep awake."

"I'll take the second trick," nodded Dick.

The schedule for watch tricks was quickly made up. Then all but Dave hastily sought their cots. Darkness was not an hour old when Dave was the only member of the camp awake. Had the high school boys been less healthy and sturdy their hearty suppers might have summoned the nightmare, but they slept on soundly.

Dick, however, stretched, gaped, then sprang up when Darry called him. Some of the others, when their turns came, did not respond as readily, and had to be dragged from their cots and stood upright before they were thoroughly awake.

It was shortly after one o'clock in the morning when Tom Reade, then on watch, stepped lightly into the tent, passing through the round of the cots, shaking each sleeper in turn.

"Those of you who want to listen to something interesting, get up instantly!" Tom exclaimed in a low voice.

Three boys drowsily rolled over, going immediately back into sound slumber. Dick and Dave, however, got up, pulling on their shoes.

"What's all that racket across the lake?" was Dick's prompt question as he stood in the doorway of the tent.

"That comes from the former camp site," chuckled Tom.

"Guns!" cried Dave Darrin in amazement.

"It sounds like a big fusillade," Dick cried, as he stepped out into the night.

"But surely no one can be trying to attack our camp, thinking we are still there," Tom protested. "We don't know any people who are wicked enough to plan an attack upon our camp."

"No," Dick agreed. "But this much is sure. There are those who dislike us enough to try to spoil our rest night after night."

Dave began to laugh merrily.

"I half believe it's Dodge and Bayliss," he remarked quietly.

"I don't," Reade objected. "Both of them are too lazy to motor up into the wilderness each night, over such rough roads, all the way from Gridley. No, no! It's someone else, though who it is I can't imagine. If it were the man of the lake mystery, or any of his people, they'd be likely to know that we're on this side of the lake."

From the edge of the timber line near by came the sound of a crackling twig, followed by a groan as of a soul in torment.

Wheeling like a flash, Tom Reade produced the pocket flash lamp.

Staring toward the boys, his face outlined between the close-growing trunks of two spruce trees, were the startling features of a man.

"That's he—the Man of the Haunting Face!" came from Tom Reade in a hoarse whisper.

"Then we'll get him!" cried Dick Prescott, leaping forward. "Hold the light on him!"

XV. THE SCREAM THAT STARTED A RACE

Yet even as the three boys dashed toward the two spruce trees the light went out.

Tom pressed frantically on the spring of the lamp as he ran, but the lamp gave forth a flickering gleam that was little better than no light at all.

The long use of the lamp in the cave had weakened the storage battery.

"Give us the light!" called Dave, as they reached the tree.

"Can't! The battery's on a strike," answered Reade grimly.

Dick Prescott, who was ahead of his companions, now halted, whispering to the others to do the same.

The man they sought had vanished. No betraying sounds came to indicate where he had gone.

"Dave and I'll stay here," whispered Dick. "Tom, run back for a lantern. Hustle!"

Fifteen minutes of eager searching, after the lantern was brought, failed to give any clue to the whereabouts of the man whom they sought.

"This is more ghostly than human," laughed young Prescott.

They felt compelled to give up the search. As they returned to the camp the firing on the opposite side of the lake broke out anew. At the distance, however, it was not loud enough to disturb the other three, who still slept in the tent. Dick flashed the lantern inside to make sure that the sleepers were safe.

At intervals the racket across the lake broke out anew.

"It's my turn to go on watch again," said Darry, glancing at his watch by the light of the lantern. "You two might as well turn in."

"We'll dress and bring our cots out into the open," Dick proposed. "You might as well have us, Dave, where you can get us instantly, and ready for action, by just touching us on the shoulder."

But the night passed, without any further disturbances than the occasional distant firing, and the rousing, every hour, of a new watchman for the camp.

It was past seven in the morning when Dick finally turned out, to find Greg and Harry busy preparing breakfast, while Darrin still slumbered.

"Where are Tom and Dan?" Prescott asked.

"Look through the trees, and presently you'll discover them out in the canoe," answered Greg. "Tom simply couldn't wait any longer to go out after bass."

"I'm going trout fishing, if I can do it without shirking," said Dick, as he rose and stretched.

"And if no one kicks I'm going with you," added Darrin, opening his eyes. "How about it, Greg? Are you and Harry willing to do the camp watch this morning?"

Greg had turned around eagerly, seeing which, Hazelton broke in:

"Go right along with 'em, Holmesy, if they'll take you. There won't be much to do in camp after, the dishes are washed."

"But it's rather a shame to leave you alone," hinted Greg wistfully. He wanted, with all his heart, to see some of the rare sport that Dick had described, but he didn't want to be unfair to anyone.

"I won't be lonesome," protested Hazelton. "We have some good books along, and I can read one of them."

"But what if the camp should be molested?" asked Greg. "You know, there is at least the Man with the Haunting Face, and there may be others."

"Whoever tries to molest this camp will be molested in his turn, I promise you," laughed Harry. "I'm no weakling, so run right along, Holmesy. Even if serious trouble should arise, I have this, you know."

He produced a long-barreled fish horn that he had used in celebrating the night before the Fourth of July.

"Two or three loud blasts on this bugle would carry a long way, and you fellows would know what I wanted," finished Hazelton.

"All right, then, I'll go," said Greg, his face beaming.

"We've trout flies in plenty, you know," Dick went on, "but we've only two poles that are suited to trouting, so we'll have to take turns."

"You may keep one pole all the time. Dick," suggested Darry. "Greg and I can take turns with the other pole."

"That will hardly be fair to you two," replied Dick, with a shake of his head.

"It wouldn't be fair to the whole crowd to take your pole away from you any part of the time," retorted Greg. "Remember, Dick, you are the expert trout fisherman of the party, and all the fellows want some more trout. We'll never forget those of last night."

Greg and Hazelton now had breakfast ready. It was eaten rather hastily, after which all hands fell to setting things to rights.

"Here, come out of the tent," called Hazelton, as Dick started inside to use a broom there. "You fellows are the providers, and I can do the little housework that's left to do."

So Dick, Dave and Greg brought out their long-legged rubber boots and got into them with little delay. Then there came a sorting of flies, and the rigging of lines and reels. Within a few minutes the three were ready to start out.

As they went up the stream Dick cut and trimmed two crotched sticks on which to string the fish they might catch.

"That looks almost boastful," chuckled Dave. "It looks as though we thought it a cinch that we're going to get a lot of trout."

"It all depends on us," Prescott rejoined. "The brook is simply full of trout, that we can catch if we display the requisite amount of skill. The mystery to me is that this brook has escaped the knowledge of the trout fishermen in Gridley. Not even Mr. Morton ever heard of this stream."

"Well, Mr. Morton can't be expected to know everything," argued Greg. "He's already the most capable sub-master in Gridley High School and the finest coach the Gridley football squad ever had."

"He's also an A No.1 trout fisherman," Dick went on. "Fellows, we mustn't tell everyone about this trout stream, but Mr. Morton is such an all around fine fellow that I think we owe it to him to tell him, when we see him, just how to reach this brook."

"If the real estate men of Gridley knew of this place," laughed Greg, "they'd buy up the ground around here and then sell bungalows at fancy prices to amateur fishermen of means."

"And then the brook would soon cease to be a trout stream," retorted young Prescott. "A large proportion of the trout would be caught within a few days, and the rest of 'em scared away to safer breeding grounds. The only way to keep a trout stream in working order is not to let many people know about it. It sounds selfish, but it's good sportsmanship."

Dick soon halted, eyeing a pool so deep that its bottom could not be seen.

"This looks like a good place to start in," he announced. "I believe I'll go a little way up stream, and then whip down past this pool and below. Now, talk only in whispers, if you can remember, fellows. Trout are shy creatures. Has either of you ever fished for trout before?"

Both Dave and Greg shook their heads.

"Then I think you had better watch me for a while, and catch some of the knack of it," their leader advised. "Notice particularly how I whip. If I get a nibble, then note, particularly, that I don't make an immediate effort to land the trout. I play the line out a bit and let him play with the fly, and beat about and get himself better imbedded on the hook. When I am sure I have him well hooked, then you'll see the peculiar motion with which I bring him out of the water and throw him on the ground. That landing trick is one that you need to get just so. Study it, and develop it. Don't be disappointed if you lose quite a few trout. You will lose them often until you get the hang of the thing."

Some distance above the pool Dick stepped into the water. He walked along slowly, not stirring up much dirt from the bottom. All the time he kept his line behind him, frequently lifting it and whipping it into the water again. The gayly colored flies and the glistening spoon just above the hook flashed in the sunlight every time he made a whipping cast.

Not twenty feet had Dick gone when he felt a sudden, violent tug. With the true patience of the trout fisherman, Dick didn't become at all excited. His hand on the reel, he let the line fly out as the finny captive darted up stream.

Presently Dick played the fish in gently, then suddenly gave it plenty of slack line. These tactics were repeated, while Dave and Greg almost danced in their eagerness.

Suddenly Dick flipped his pole sharply. There was a swish of line in the air. Something speckled and glistening dropped on the ground at least ten feet from the brook, where it lay floundering and gasping.

"Hoo-ray!" yelled Greg, with all his pent-up enthusiasm.

"Do that again, Holmesy, and I'll chase you back into camp," warned Dick, with his patient smile. Then he stepped ashore, took the trout from the line and impaled it on a stick, which he gave Greg to carry.

Within two minutes there was another strike. The same patient tactics, and Dick had another trout—this time a two-pounder as against about three quarters of a pound for the weight of the first trout.

The third trout got away, despite the most careful handling, but the fourth and fifth biters were soon landed.

"I can't stand this any longer," quivered Dave. "I've got to start in. Where do you want me to go, Dick?"

"Better go about a quarter of a mile upstream," Prescott suggested, "and then work down this way. Greg can go along with you and carry the stick for your string. I'll look out for my own string."

For nearly half an hour Prescott saw nothing of his friends. Then Dave and Greg came in sight. Dick held up a string now numbering eleven trout, some of them unusually large.

For answer Greg held up a crotched stick with not a single trout dangling therefrom.

"There's more knack to this game than I can catch," muttered Darry disconsolately, "but I'd give a good deal to get the knack of it."

"No man save the first trout fisherman of all ever learned without a teacher," Dick assured his chum. "Greg, you take a place farther down the stream, and I'll stay with Dave and try to show him some of the tricks. You may have my pole and line, Greg, for I shall be busy watching Dave."

Many a pull at his line had Darrin, and many a fish was lost ere, under Prescott's patient instruction, he managed to land a trout weighing about a pound.

"Whew!" muttered Dave, mopping his brow. "At this moment I believe I feel prouder than any general who ever captured a city."

"You'll soon have the hang of it, now, Dave," was his chum's encouraging assurance. "Now, I'm going to hunt up Holmesy, and see if I can show him some of the knack."

Greg proved a grateful though not very clever pupil. He was all enthusiasm, but the art of landing a trout appeared to him to be one of the most difficult feats in the world.

"I don't believe I'll ever land enough to fill a frying pan," he said dejectedly. "Dick, the fellows are depending upon you. Take this pole and use it for the next hour."

Later in the forenoon Greg had one small trout on a stick he had cut and trimmed for himself. Dave Darrin looked almost triumphant as he displayed three of the speckled ones. Both stared in envy at Dick's string of thirty-four trout.

"Of course it'll take a few days of patient study of the game to enable you to make big catches," was Dick's consoling assurance.

"I'd put in all summer, if I were sure I could master the trick in the end," said Dave.

Greg said nothing, but felt less resolute about it than Darrin did.

"Why, it's only fifteen minutes before noon," cried Dave, glancing at his watch.

"Then it's high time to be going back," nodded Dick, "in case the fellows are depending upon us for their meal. If Tom has a lot of bass, though, we can store these trout in our new ice box—the cave."

"And let the Man with the Haunting Face slip in there, after dark, and help himself!" grumbled Darry. "Somehow that idea doesn't make any hit with me."

"Then we'll have to put in the afternoon," proposed Prescott, "in building a log-lined pit in the ground and moving ice from the cave to fill it. Then we can keep our fish supplies right up under our noses in front of the tent."

"That's a little more satisfactory in the way of an idea," nodded Darry.

For the purpose of taking a short cut they soon left the brook, going through a stretch of woods on their way to camp.

Hardly had these high school boys entered the woods when they halted, for an instant, in intense consternation.

On the air there came to them a sudden scream.

"That was a girl's voice!" gasped Greg.

"Or a woman's," nodded Dick. "We've got to——"

Again a piercing scream, then more screams in two voices.

"Hustle!" finished Dick, as the three boys broke into a run in the direction whence the sound of the voices came to them.

XVI. THE CAMP INVADED AND CAPTURED

Clad in their long fishing boots, none of the boys made anything like his usual speed in running.

Grumbling inwardly at their clumsy gait, all three hurried as fast as they could into the near-by stretch of forest.

There, in a path, they came upon a middle-aged woman accompanied by four girls, all of whom showed signs of unusual alarm.

"Oh, Dave," called Belle Meade, "I'm so glad to see you!"

"You usually are," laughed Darrin, "but I never knew you to make so much noise about it before."

"What's the trouble?" Dick inquired, after a hasty greeting to Mrs. Bentley, Laura Bentley, Belle Meade, Fannie Upham and Margery White, the latter four all Gridley High School girls.

"A man—he must have been crazy!" replied Laura. Her voice shook slightly, and she was still trembling, though the color was beginning to return to her face.

"Did he offer to molest you?" flared Dick.

"No, indeed!" replied Mrs. Bentley promptly and laughing nervously. "In fact, I think we must have frightened the man, for his desire seemed to be to get away from us as fast as he could."

"But that face!" cried Miss Fanny. "I never want to see it again."

"It must have been our Man of the Haunting Face," murmured Dick, turning to his chums.

"That was he—just who it was!" declared Belle, with emphasis. "I don't know whom you're talking about, but 'haunting face' just describes the man who frightened us."

"It was so silly of us!" murmured Laura Bentley. "It was clear nonsense for us to be so frightened, but when, we saw that face peering at us from behind a tree we simply couldn't help screaming."

"Are you alone?" demanded Prescott in some astonishment, for these were carefully brought-up girls, and it was not like their parents to let them go into the woods without other guard than that of a chaperon.

At that instant Dick's question was answered by the appearance of Dr. Bentley, who, on account of his weight, panted somewhat as he ran.

"Did—these—young men frighten—you so badly—that you—made such a commotion—and caused me nearly to breathe—my last in running to—your aid?" demanded the good doctor gaspingly, his eyes twinkling.

"No, sir; we came, like yourself, when we heard the girls scream," Dick Prescott explained.

Then, amid much talking, and with as many as three people speaking at once, the story was quickly recounted for Dr. Bentley.

"We've seen the fellow before," Dick explained, "but he always fakes alarm and vanishes. We call him our man of mystery—the Man with the Haunting Face."

"Some poor, simple-minded fellow," suggested Dr. Bentley. "Probably one whose mild mania leads him to prefer to live in the woods, a regular hermit. My dears, I'm surprised that any of you should be so easily startled and make such noisy testimony to your alarm."

"I'm indignant with myself now—when there are men standing by," laughed Belle. "But I wish you had seen that man's strange face, Doctor."

"I would like to see it, and punch it, too!" muttered Dave.

"Not a bit of it!" objected Dr. Bentley heartily. "No doubt the poor fellow is sadly afflicted mentally. He's what the Arabs call a 'simple,' and the Arabs have a beautiful faith that all 'simples' are under the direct protection of Allah. So, woe to him who offends one of Allah's 'simples.'"

"How do you boys come to be here?" asked Laura.

"I might ask the same question of your party," smiled Dick. "As for us, we are away on a vacation fishing and camping trip."

"I knew you were going away," said Dr. Bentley, "but I didn't know just where. We are touring again, in my seven-passenger car. We are headed for the St. Clair Lake House, eight miles below here. But the roads are so bad that the chauffeur said it would take us more than an hour to get through. So I proposed to Mrs. Bentley and the girls that we leave the car at the road and cross over here to have our luncheon on the shore of this second lake. I have been here before, and remember it as a beautiful spot. Mrs. Bentley and the girls started on ahead, and I brought up the rear with the baskets of food. But they got further ahead of me than I thought. Now I must go back after the baskets, which I set down before I started to run here. Greg, will you go back with me and help me bring the baskets?"

Greg at once accompanied the physician. When they came to the spot, however, they found but one basket, and that nearly empty. The second basket had disappeared altogether.

"Fine!" grunted Dr. Bentley. "Greg, our committee of two must go back and report the disquieting news."

"Not so very disquieting, sir," smiled young Holmes. "We have a camp full of food to offer you."

That invitation Dick and Dave very quickly seconded when the doctor rejoined the party.

"Especially if you can eat trout, sir," Dick went on.

"Don't! Don't be cruel!" remonstrated Dr. Bentley. "I used to eat trout when I was a boy, but they are now an extinct fish."

"Are they, sir?" inquired Dick, unwrapping a paper from around part of the morning's heavy catch, while Dave exhibited the contents of a similar bundle.

Dr. Bentley rubbed his eyes.

"Bless me, these are a fine imitation of brook trout as I recall them," he murmured.

"What did you mean by saying that trout were an extinct fish?" asked Laura.

"They're extinct for all but the wealthy," replied the physician. "Brook trout, in these days, generally cost all of a dollar and a half a pound, and I've heard of as high as two dollars a pound being paid for them."

"There are plenty hereabouts, just now," Dick replied. "But we may take them all out of the water before we move from here."

"Of course," nodded Laura's father. "That's what trout are for. They won't do anyone any good as long as they remain in the water."

"Let's hurry back, please," urged Dick. "I am anxious to see your luncheon under way."

"Yes," teased Belle, "the sooner you have satisfied our appetites the sooner you may expect to see us gone and be able to enjoy yourselves and your comfortable solitude once more."

"Now, just for saying that, Belle," uttered Dick reproachfully, "I'm going to consider the revenge of burning two of your trout in the pan."

"Mercy!" cried Belle Meade. "Are you going to cook the trout?"

"After you've eaten a trout cooked and served up by Dick Prescott," Dave declared, "you won't want them cooked by anyone else. Dick is the one trout chef in this part of the country."

"Where did he learn?" teased Belle with a pretense of suspicion.

"Mr. Morton—Coach Morton, of our high school eleven—taught Dick how to do it," Dave explained.

"Right here, young ladies—attention!" called Dr. Bentley, holding up a warning finger. "If brook trout are as fine eating as they used to be when I was a boy, then you simply won't be able to keep it a secret that you've eaten some recently. Yet on one point I must insist. None of you must be dishonorable enough to name any spot within fifty miles of here as the scene of your trout luncheon. If you let the secret out all the trout fishermen in four counties will be swarming here to destroy all the fun your young men friends are having. So, please remember! Utter, dark, uncompromising secrecy!"

"Is it as bad as that?" asked Belle.

"Every real trout fisherman knows enough to keep his own secrets as to the streams that contain trout," Dave nodded.

By this time they came within sight of the camp. Nor was it long before Tom, Dan and Harry caught sight of the visitors and ran forward to meet them.

"Our friends have come just in time to have a trout feast," Dick announced.

"I shall be jealous if they eat the trout," Tom retorted.

"Or envious?" laughed Belle.

"No; jealous," Tom assured her. "Dan and I have been fishing, too. Come and see what we caught."

Tom led the way to where he had cleaned more than a dozen black bass, while in buckets of water lay nearly thirty more fine, sleek-looking fish.

"Didn't you catch anything but bass?" Dave asked.

"A few other fish," Tom admitted, "but we threw the inferior fish back into the water. Now, girls, which are you going to have—trout or bass?"

"Both—if we may," ventured Laura, with a smile.

And both were served at the meal. Motherly Mrs. Bentley laid aside her motoring dust coat and marshaled the girls for the various tasks to which she assigned them.

What a hubbub there was in preparing the feast!

Dick built two small fires for his own exclusive use. Tom built two more, while Dan and Greg skirmished for more wood. Dr. Bentley, his coat off and shirt sleeves rolled up, constructed a "warm oven" with stones topped by a large baking tin. Then he built another.

Dick fried the trout, while Dr. Bentley started low fires under the two crude warming ovens. As fast as trout were fried they were dropped into one oven, Tom's bass being dropped into the other. Potatoes were boiling in one pot, tinned peas in another, and tinned string beans in still another. Tinned pudding was set in another pot of water to heat, while Mrs. Bentley made a sauce, and the girls set the table and made the other necessary preparations for the luncheon.

Presently the meal was ready, though the boys did not seat themselves until they had seen their welcome guests served.

"Daddy," murmured Laura, "I don't blame you for regretting your boyhood, if you had many trout feasts."

"How's the bass?" asked Tom, almost jealously.

"Just splendid," replied Laura, sampling her first fork full.

"You boys are camping in a fisherman's paradise," declared Dr. Bentley. "I don't blame you for liking this life. When I was a boy fresh water fish were almost as plentiful as salt water fish. Now, we rarely find any fresh water fish in the markets. I can't understand how this choice retreat for fishermen has escaped notice, unless it is because of the almost total lack of inhabitants in this section, and the miserable apologies for roads. Once again I must caution all of you young women not to be indiscreet and spoil this fisherman's paradise for your young friends by talking about it to anyone."

All four of the girls promised absolute secrecy.

After they had all satisfied their hunger, Dick asked Dr. Bentley all about the St. Clair Lake House. He learned that it was a fine, modern hotel, accommodating about one hundred and fifty guests. It was just on the edge of the good roads, Dr. Bentley explained; this side of the hotel no roads worthy of the name existed. Dick was very thoughtful after receiving the information, for he had something on his mind.

"How about that chauffeur of yours, doctor?" asked Dave suddenly.

"Oh, we left him with a comfortable luncheon," replied Dr. Bentley. "He can't leave the car, you know."

"Will you take him two or three trout, sir?" urged Dick.

"And a bass, sir?" added Reade.

"We'll wait for him to eat them in the car," replied the physician, "provided the poor fellow hasn't gorged himself on plainer food and has no room left for real fare like this."

When the time came that the guests must really leave, five of the boys accompanied the party to the road. Hazelton remained to watch the camp.

"Now, let's hustle!" urged Dick, as the car rolled out of sight. "When we get back to camp we have many long hours of work to do."

"Work of what kind?" inquired Tom.

"First of all," replied Prescott, with his most mysterious air, "we are going to build, close to camp, a make-believe ice-box. Then we're going to fill the box with ice."

"And what will all that be for?" Dave wanted to know.

"If you can't guess now," smiled young Prescott, his eyes gleaming, "you'll soon begin to see daylight through my plan! I don't know—but I believe that the plan I have in mind is going to work out in great shape!"

XVII. DICK MAKES FISH TALK

"That's the longest eight miles I've ever done," muttered Hazelton.

"The map is wrong. It's a hundred and eight," affirmed Dave.

"No matter, if the trip turns out to have been wisely planned," remarked Dick, a wistful look coming into his eyes. "Of course, I may have overshot the mark."

"That's a chance we had to take," declared Dave promptly. "We won't be disappointed if we find that we haven't made such a big move, after all."

The three high school boys had halted in the shade of some trees by the highway. A quarter of a mile away, around the head of the body of water known as the third lake, stood a handsome hotel, the St. Clair Lake House.

It was now nearly nine o'clock in the morning. Dick and his two comrades had been on the way, over the rough road, propelling the heavily laden push cart, from which water now dripped from melting ice. The boys had built their ice-house, or ice-box, whichever one preferred to call it, and they had stocked it with ice from the cave. Dick, Dave and Greg had whipped up and down the stream in turn; Tom and Dan had trolled the lake for bass. As fast as the fish were brought in they were stored on the ice. After two days of hard fishing the boys arose before four o'clock in the morning, for Dick was now ready to test his venture.

"Stay close by that box, Harry," warned Dick, as he took hold of the handles of the push cart.

"Won't I, though?" Hazelton demanded.

Dick and Dave trudged onward, taking brief turns at the cart. Thus they entered the hotel grounds at the rear, continuing until they were close up to the rear porch. Then Dick ascended the steps and knocked at the door. As no one answered, he stepped into the corridor.

"What do you want here?" asked a well-dressed, portly man of fifty, who stepped out of a nearby room.

"I would like to see the manager, or steward, sir," Prescott replied.

"We don't want any help," replied the man.

"I haven't any help to offer, sir," Dick smiled. "Can I see the steward, or the manager?"

"I'm the proprietor, if that will do," answered the man, giving Dick a sharp look. He saw that his youthful visitor was evidently a well-bred boy, but that did not prove that Dick was not looking for work. College boys often serve as bell-boys or waiters at summer hotels.

"If you will step outside then, a moment, sir," Prescott continued, "I think I can show you the nicest lot of black bass you ever saw."

"A string of bass, eh?"

"No, sir; quite a load."

"I'll look at them," said the proprietor briefly.

When he saw the quantity of bass, and noted the plumpness of the fish, the proprietor was more interested. It is always a problem, with a summer hotel, to serve enough novel food. But the proprietor offered less than half the price Dick named. The high school boy, however, stuck to his price.

"I can't deal with you, then," said the owner, with a shake of the head, starting to reenter the hotel.

"The Kelway House is about a mile and a half below here, isn't it, sir?" asked Prescott, preparing to push the cart along.

"Yes; but they won't buy fish at that price."

"I'll try them, anyway, sir. Thank you for the trouble you've taken for me. Good morning, sir."

"Hold on, there," interrupted the hotel proprietor. "Perhaps I can offer you a little more."

In his own mind the hotel man was determined that the rival Kelway House should not have the chance to serve these bass.

More haggling followed, but Dick stuck to his price. In the end he got it. Scales were brought and the fish weighed. The total came to eighteen dollars and thirty-three cents.

"I suppose an even eighteen dollars will satisfy you?" asked the hotel man.

"Yes, sir," admitted the greatly delighted Prescott.

While the money was being counted over, Dave slipped away with the push cart.

"In about ten minutes, sir," said Dick, after he had pocketed the money and had thanked the hotel man, "I'll have something else to show you."

"What?" asked the man, eyeing Dick keenly.

"Now, if you don't mind, sir," coaxed Dick, with a smile, "I'd rather not destroy, in advance, the keen delight you're going to feel when you see the next cartload."

"How many of these cartloads have you lying around?" asked the proprietor quickly.

"The next one will be also the last, sir. May I call you out when my friends get here with it?"

"I—I guess so," assented the hotel man, and then went inside. Dick found a seat on a nearby bench and waited.

Dave and Harry presently came along with the cart. Dick once more went after his prospective purchaser.

"What have you now—more bass?" asked the hotel man, eyeing the heavy box on the cart. Water was dripping from the ice and running to the ground.

"No, sir; just look!" begged Prescott, lifting some jute bagging from the top of the box, then digging down through the top layer of cracked ice.

"Brook trout?" cried the hotel man. "Where on earth did you get them?"

"We have a factory where we turn 'em out nights, sir," volunteered Dave, with a grin.

"What do you want for them—same price as for the bass?" demanded the proprietor.

"We could hardly afford to do that, you know," Prescott replied. "Down in a town like Gridley these brook trout ought to retail for a dollar and a half a pound. We'll offer them to you, sir, at sixty cents a pound—flat."

"Take 'em away!" ordered the hotel man, with an air of finality. This time it was plain that he did not propose to purchase.

"You won't be sorry after we're gone, will you?" asked Dick politely.

"I can't afford to put sixty-cents-a-pound fish on my bill of fare," said the hotel man.

At this moment two well-dressed, prosperous-looking, middle-aged men came strolling around the corner of the building. As Dick was about to cover his fish one of them caught sight of the speckled beauties, and stopped short.

"Hello! Aren't these fine, Johnson?" the man demanded of the proprietor. "Going to buy these trout for the hotel?"

"I can't afford to put such costly fish on the bill of fare," replied Johnson candidly.

"Man, you don't have to," replied the other. "Send these trout to the grill-room ice-box. Let guests who want brook trout order them as extras. Why, I'll eat a few of these myself, if you serve 'em."

"Certainly," nodded the other man.

Proprietor Johnson had caught a new idea from the suggestion of serving the trout as an "extra" in the grill-room of the hotel. All of a sudden he began to scent a profit.

"All right, young man," smiled Mr. Johnson. "Begin to unload. I'll have the scales brought out again."

The weight proved to be a little over one hundred pounds. Dick accepted an even sixty dollars, while Harry Hazelton nearly strangled himself in his efforts to keep from cheering lustily.

This money, too, was counted out.

"Are you going to bring any more fish this way?" asked Mr. Johnson.

"I can hardly say as to that, sir," Dick hesitated.

"If you do, I can't agree positively to buy, but I'll be glad, anyway, if you'll give me the first chance. I will see how these trout 'go' in the grill-room in the meantime."

"We'll give you the first call, sir," Dick nodded. "Thank you very much for this morning's business."

"That boy is a budding merchant," thought Johnson, staring after Dick as the three high school boys trundled their cart away. But in this estimate the hotel man chanced to be wrong.

"Let's hurry up and get away from the hotel—a long way off," urged Hazelton.

"Why?" asked Dave. "It was a fine place—for us."

"Yes; but I want to yell, with all my might," Darry declared. "Seventy-eight dollars—think of it!"

"Nothing to get excited about," Dick declared calmly.

"When did we ever make so much money in life same time before?" blurted Hazelton.

"Never, perhaps," Prescott admitted. "We made money, this time, because we had something that everyone wants, and the supply of which isn't large. We would have made far more money if we had had a cart full of diamonds in the rough."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Hazelton. "We don't know where to find diamonds."

"I didn't say that we did," Dick rejoined. "But we had something that is rare, and in demand. The rarer a thing is that everyone wants the better price can be had for it. The bass didn't bring anywhere near as much money as the trout, just because people don't call for black bass as much as they will for brook trout."

They were entering the little village beyond the hotel. They had to go there in order to mail their letters, for all the boys had taken advantage of this opportunity to write home.

"We'll be nervous with this seventy-eight dollars in camp, in addition to the few other dollars we have," Dave suggested.

"We won't keep a lot of money in camp," Dick replied. "I'm going to buy a money order for seventy-five dollars, payable to myself, and send it to my father to hold for me until we get back. Then I'll cash the order in Gridley and turn the money into our common fund."

"And we'll add to that fund," proposed Hazelton eagerly.

"If the bass and the trout hold out," supplemented Dick.

"Say, wouldn't it be mighty nice if only we could get some home letters here?" asked Hazelton, as the three left the cart at the curb and turned to enter the post-office.

"We can look for home letters on our next trip here," Dick suggested. "On Tom's, Greg's and Dan's letters I'm going to add a note on the outside of the envelope to the effect that letters may be sent to this office for us. And I'm going to add a postscript to my letter to my father and mother. You fellows had better do the same thing."

Dick's first move was to get a money order blank and fill out his application. Then all hands attended to their postscripts.

This done they went outside.

"There's a little grove down that street," said Dave, pointing. "Why not go down there and take a brief nap?"

"I want a long one," Dick laughed. "Traveling over that road was harder work than I've ever done on the football field."

Their nap lasted until a little after noon.

"Whee! But I'm hungry," grumbled Hazelton.

"I think we may feel justified in finding a restaurant, and getting a good meal," assented Dick.

"I want a steak for mine," proposed Darry. "It seems a year since we've had one."

"Great idea!" nodded Dick. "And, while we're about it, we'll get steaks and some stewing meat the last thing before we leave town and take it back to the fellows. We've had so much fish that red meat will hit a tender spot with all the fellows."

"It will make a big hit with Tom Reade, I know," laughed Hazelton.

Pushing the cart through the street, the high school boys found a restaurant that looked as though it would be within reach of their purses. The boys put their cart in a back yard, then went in and asked permission to wash up. This being granted, they soon after took seats at a table in the restaurant.

It was an odd little place, equipped with several booths, each containing a table and seats for four persons.

"We'll take the booth away down at the end of the room, where we won't be seen by better-dressed people," proposed Dave.

Accordingly they occupied the last booth in the row. There they ordered a meal that made their mouths water in advance.

Hazelton, poking his head out of the booth as he heard some one enter, hastily drew it in again.

"Guess who's coming!" he whispered.

"Can't," replied Dick.

"Dodge and Bayliss," replied Harry.

"Keep out of sight, and don't talk," ordered Prescott.

Bert Dodge and his chum came down the room, taking the booth next to that of the high school boys, yet without seeing Dick and his chums.

When the waiter appeared Dodge ordered two ice creams.

"Queer what became of the mucker gang," observed Bayliss, after the waiter had departed.

"Not a bit queer," retorted Bert. "That was why I wanted to meet you here this morning. I've found out where they are."

"How did you find out?" demanded Bayliss.

"Do you see this post card?" demanded Bert, laying a card on the table. "It was written by Laura Bentley to Susie Sharp, and mentions their having had lunch at the camp of the high school muckers. And this message gives a clear enough idea of where their camp is, too. Laura must have dropped the card in the street, for that's where I found it."

"Say, that's a great find!" chuckled Bayliss.

"You may wager that it is," grinned Dodge. "We broke up one night of sleep for the muckers with those bombs, but I've an idea that the night we shot off sixty rounds of blank shotgun shells that they had already moved. But now I have a brand-new one that we can use and make them break camp and run for home as fast as they can go. Then we'll pass the story of their scare all around Gridley, and they'll never hear the last of the laugh against them."

"I'm all attention, old fellow!" Bayliss protested eagerly.

"So are we!" thought Dick grimly, as he glanced at Dave and Harry.

XVIII. A KETTLE OF HOT WATER FOR SOMEONE

It was a wonderfully elaborate scheme to which the high school boys were privileged to listen. Such a scheme, really showed Dodge, in a way, to be possessed of more brains than people in Gridley commonly credited him with possessing.

But Dick smiled at Dave Darrin's scowl as the plot was unfolded in the next booth.

Fortunately for Dick and his chums the steak order was delayed in the serving. Thus Dodge and Bayliss finished their ice cream and left the place without discovering the presence of their intended victims.

"Say, aren't that pair just going to enjoy themselves at our expense?" chuckled Hazelton, after the plotters had left.

"Unless I miss my guess, they're going to dance to our music to-night," laughed Dick gleefully.

Their meal was served soon after, and eaten with relish. As soon as it had been finished Dick asked the waiter for a sheet of paper and envelope.

"Don't worry about any weird doings you may hear of from our camp," Prescott wrote his mother. "We've just learned of a big scare Dodge and Bayliss are planning to spring on us up at our camp. We're going to turn the tables on them—that's all. But I write this for fear you may hear some awful tales when that pair reach Gridley."

As they left the restaurant, Dick returned to the post-office, mailing this second letter to his mother.

"Now, we must buy a few things here," Dick explained to his friends. "Then we must get out of this village by a back road, and we must make sure that we don't run into that pair of ex-soreheads."

The "sorehead" reference, as readers of our "High School Boys Series" will recall, had to do with Dodge and Bayliss, ere they had been chased out of Gridley High School. These boys had belonged to the notorious "sorehead faction" in the high school football squad.

Going in different directions, Dick, Dave and Harry were able to make all their needed purchases in a short time. Right after that, they got out of the village, and back upon the rough trail for camp without having met their enemies.

It was nearly seven o'clock when the three travelers, all but fagged out, pushed their cart in sight of camp and gave a hail that brought the other chums running to meet them.

First of all, word was passed as to the successful outcome of the fish-selling expedition.

"I thought you fellows would bring us some fresh meat," Tom cried, when Dave unloaded the cart. "Fresh vegetables, too? Wow! Won't we live? I told the fellows not to try to get supper until you got back, as you'd be sure to bring something that would make us sorry we had eaten. We've the fires all ready."

"And now, listen!" commanded Dick Prescott, after the first preparations had been made for supper.

Thereupon the young leader of Dick & Co. repeated the plot they had heard Dodge and Bayliss unfold that noon.

"Hang those two heathens!" sputtered Tom Reade indignantly.

"Oh, I'm glad they're coming," laughed Dick. "All I hope is that nothing will happen to keep them from coming to-night."

Then Dick outlined his plan. Tom Read, after listening for a few moments, lay on the ground, rolling over and over in his glee.

"Wow! But won't that be great?" demanded Greg, laughing until the tears ran from his eyes.

"Say, we mustn't talk any more now. We must eat supper, and then get ready if we're to play the reception committee successfully tonight."

At a very early hour, considering the lateness of the evening meal, Reade, with his knack in woodwork, and with no other tool than his jackknife, had fashioned the stocks for two "rifles." These Hazelton carefully treated with mud from the lake so as to give them a dark color.

"If the guns are seen by the light of the campfire, the stocks and barrels ought to be of different colors," Dick explained.

Dave was now fashioning two straight sticks into semblance of rifle barrels. These were lightly treated with mud and fastened to the two stocks. Then two additional "rifles" were to be manufactured.

Other work was performed, and all was gotten in readiness. Prescott had a number of mysterious-looking little packages that he had bought in the village.

"Oh, dear, but I hope nothing happens to keep Dodge and Bayliss from coming to-night," breathed Tom, as he labored fast. "David, little giant, hurry up with those barrels. There can be no telling how soon we shall have to defend ourselves with these 'Quaker' guns!"

As they worked, the high school boys indulged in many a chuckle.

"It takes something like this to keep me awake to-night," Dick yawned. "If there were no excitement coming, I'm so dead sleepy that I could go right into dreamland standing up."

"So could I," chirped Dave. "But I manage to keep awake by enjoying the thought of how thoroughly we'll wake up someone else tonight!"

"If our plans don't miscarry," warned Dick.

"Please don't croak about failure or disappointment," begged Tom tragically. "My warm, impulsive young heart won't stand any disappointment to-night."

So they toiled on, their preparations all along the line taking shape rapidly.

By ten o'clock they had everything completed, including the manufacture of the "Quaker" rifles.

"Now, to our posts," chuckled Dick, after a rapid distribution of things from the packages brought up from the village.

The campfire was allowed to burn low. Some light was still needed for the full success of their plans.

Tom and Dan took up their stand in front of the tent, each armed with a "Quaker" gun.

XIX. BERT DODGE HEARS FRIGHTFUL NEWS

Half an hour passed. At last there came the long-drawn, doleful note of the screech owl.

It was but an amateurish imitation; an Indian would have treated it with contempt, but it was well enough done to deceive untrained ears.

Tom glanced at Danny Grin, smiling quietly. The imitation note of the screech owl was a signal from Dick that Dodge and Bayliss had arrived, and were starting their nonsense.

Still Tom did not speak of this to Dan. There could be no telling whether Dodge or Bayliss might be within hearing already. So Tom and Dan, gripping their quite harmless weapons, became more alert in appearance.

It was true enough that Dodge and Bayliss were now on the scene. They had hidden their car off at the side of the road, a mile or more below, and had crept forward with their outfit for the night's big scare.

Dodge carried half a dozen large hot-air balloons, which he had made for the purpose. Under the other arm be carried a package that looked as though it had come from a department store.

Bayliss, a broad grin on his face, carried the working parts of a new style siren whistle, intended for automobiles, but a machinist had succeeded in flutting some new notes and effects into the screech of this ear-splitter.

"I hope they won't take the noise of this siren for the cry of a screech owl," whispered Bayliss, as the pair stole stealthily along.

"If they do, they'll soon get over that idea, and find their real fright up in the air," Bert Dodge whispered in response.

"I wonder how much further on their camp is, or whether we're anywhere near it?" Bayliss asked.

"We'll soon know how close we are, for the lake can't be much further on. I just caught sight of the water in the starlight," Bert answered.

How astounded both mischief makers would have been had they known that certain members of Dick & Co. were even now trailing them.

"There's the tent!" whispered Dodge suddenly, checking his Companion, as they came to a spot on the slope where they could see the white of the canvas faintly displayed by the glow from a dying campfire.

"Two of them are about, too!" muttered Bayliss disgustedly.

"Then they're all the more certain to see what they're going to see soon," chuckled his companion. "Only we must work quickly."

Bayliss separated one of the balloons from the string held by Bert. The package was opened and from it Bayliss took and fitted over the balloon enough filmy gauze to cover it to a length of six or seven feet. Tying a longer string to the balloon, Bayliss allowed the white, filmy mass to soar upward. When the balloon had reached a height of twenty feet above the near-by tree tops, Bayliss made it fast to a tree trunk. Then he and Dodge skipped hastily to a point some eighty yards away, where they speedily sent up another. In a very short time all six balloons were flying on the night air, each with its trail of white fleecy stuff hanging therefrom.

"They do look like ghosts flying in the air, don't they?" demanded Bayliss exultantly.

"Not to me," muttered Bert. "But that's because I know what they're made of."

"Let's hustle now with the rest," urged Bayliss.

"Right you are," agreed Bert.

They hurried along, going a bit nearer to the camp, until Dodge pointed to a tangle of bushes.

"That'll be a good place to hide with the siren. You get in there with it, but don't start it until about sixty seconds after you hear the big noise. Then I'll hustle right back here to you."

"Don't let any of Dick Prescott's friends catch you," urged Bayliss, who would have gasped had he known that at that moment two of them crouched close enough to hear every word.

Now Bert hastened down the slope, carrying a fireworks' bomb very much like those that he and Bayliss had set off on the opposite side of the lake on another evening long to be remembered.

Treading cautiously, Bert reached a point not far distant from the doorway of the camp tent. Here, crouching in the screening bushes, Bert placed the bomb in position. It was only a fireworks' bomb of the kind used on Fourth of July nights. It was harmless enough to one who stood more than thirty feet from it.

"The fuse will burn a minute before it goes off," murmured Bert to himself. "That will give me almost time to reach Bayliss before the big noise comes. The noise will bring them all out of the tent. Then the remainder of our programme will do the rest."

But, even as Bert reached for the match with which to touch off the fuse he heard Dalzell call in a voice audible at the distance:

"Look at those things up in the air, Tom!"

"He has sighted our 'ghosts,'" laughed Bert to himself.

"They must be some sort of signal kites, flown by the moonshiners," answered Reade in an interested tone.

"Kites! Is that what he takes our ghosts for?" wondered Bert Dodge in deep disgust.

But the mention of the word "moonshiners" gave the listener a start. In a general way he knew that "moonshiner" is the term applied to men who try to cheat the United States Revenue Service by distilling liquors on which they pay no tax. Bert had heard that moonshiners are deadly men, indeed, and that they make little of shooting down the government officers who are sent to ferret out their hiding places and arrest them.

"I wish we hadn't run into those moonshiners," said Danny, rather dolefully. "And I wish Dick hadn't thought it necessary to go and send word to the United States authorities. I'm afraid there's going to be an awful row here to-night."

"What's that?" wondered Bert, pricking up his ears.

"I rather wish Dick hadn't been in such an awful rush," Tom admitted slowly. "Anyway, we fellows should have gotten out of here and left it to the marshals to have it all their own way. I'm afraid there is going to be a big fight to-night, and these old woods may be full of humming bullets. And I'm worried about Dick, too, going off as guide to the marshals. There were only eight of the marshals, and, even with four of our fellows, they still have to face nearly twenty of the moonshiners—and I'll wager that the moonshiners are all desperate fighters."

"Oh, dear!" wailed Danny Grin.

Bert Dodge's face was a study. With the prospect of a running fight between United States' marshals and desperate moonshiners about to take place, these woods seemed likely to be anything but a safe place.

"At least, the marshals did a decent thing in leaving us rifles here to protect ourselves with," Dan Dalzell continued.

Raising his head, Bert took a long look at the camp. Not far away stood Tom Reade, the outlines of a rifle in his grasp showing very distinctly. Dalzell was over nearer the shadow of the tent, yet Bert made sure that Dalzell had a rifle also.

"Gracious! There is likely to be real enough trouble in the woods to-night!" muttered Bert. "Those boys didn't have guns when they left Gridley. The authorities have probably furnished them."

Just then a popping fire rang out further up the lake slope.

"There it goes!" almost yelled Danny Grin. "The marshals have run into the moonshiners. The fight is on. Oh, I hope none of our fellows are being hit!"

Certainly the firing continued briskly. Dodge forgot all about lighting the fuse of the fireworks' bomb.

Instead, he crouched low, then darted from the bushes, running as fast as he could to the point where he had left his companion.

"In here!" chuckled Bayliss gleefully. "I didn't know you had anything with you but the bomb, Bert."

"That's all I did have," whispered Dodge, white-faced. "Hustle out of here, Bayliss!"

"What's the matter?"

"Hear that firing?"

"I thought you had been setting off fire crackers, Bert."

"Fire crackers nothing!" ejaculated Bert, his face ghastly. "Man alive, that's a fight going on up the slope between United States officers and a lot of desperate moonshiners! There goes the firing again."

Bayliss heard it; he couldn't help that.

Then still nearer rang out the firing.

"We've got to get out of here as fast as our legs will take us," Bert insisted. "Hustle before the bullets reach us."

At that moment Dave Darrin broke from cover, running as fast as his legs could carry him. As he raced toward camp Darrin called:

"Reade! Danny! This is Darrin. Get ready to run or fight. It's a fearful affair. Four of the marshals were down when I left, and Dick Prescott is done for, too! Oh, it's fearful! There won't be any of the government party left!"

Apparent terror rang in Darrin's voice as he ran forward flourishing his "Quaker" rifle.

"Great Scott!" groaned Bayliss, trying to rise and run, though his legs shook under him.

"Buck up! Don't be a coward!" hissed Dodge, seizing his companion by the arm. "Come on! Run for it—before we're hit."

Thus the two made their escape, running, stumbling through the woods, heading blindly for the spot where they had left their car.

Back of them fresh sounds of firing rang out. How could the frightened, dazed fugitives know that it was Dick Prescott, pursuing, and dropping lighted strings of fire crackers as he ran?

"It's a running fight, and coming right our way!" gasped Bert.

"Let's drop down and crawl to safety!" almost screamed Bayliss.

"No, you don't!" retorted Dodge angrily. "Our only safety lies in getting into that car and throwing the engine wide open. I don't care if we wreck the car if only we can cover a couple of miles of ground first. Run! Hustle!"

Had he suffered from a little keener fear, Bayliss would have collapsed utterly. As it was, fear lent him extra speed. He fairly tore over the ground, darting through bushes, plunging on in headlong haste. Bert kept with him.

"We'll soon be all right," cried Dodge encouragingly. "Now, jump right across the road. Our car is in there, and headed the right way."

Just as they reached the car and Bert's pale face showed right in front of the headlights a third figure dashed up.

Harry Hazelton, his head swathed in a red-stained bandage, and what appeared to be blood dripping from his left arm, sprang at them, the butt of his rifle showing, but its barrel wrapped in his jacket.

XX. A FRENZIED RIDE TO SAFETY

"Wait!" gasped Hazelton. "You've got to take me, too."

"Not much," hissed Bayliss, his voice trembling. "This car is built only for two."

"You've got to take me, I tell you," Harry insisted, his voice trembling. "Do you think I'm going to be left behind?"

"This car is built for——" Bayliss started to insist again.

"Then you will stay behind, Bayliss, at that rate," Harry retorted. "Remember, I am able to enforce my wishes. Do I go, too?"

Bert had started the engine, and now sprang in at the wheel. Hazelton leaped in also, taking the other seat.

Bayliss, quivering in every muscle, leaped in, crouching between them.

"I see that you've decided to come along with us," mocked Harry.

"Hang you!" snarled Bayliss. "If you didn't have that gun we'd see about it."

"Start her, fast, Dodge!" ordered Harry.

With a roar of the engine the car lurched forward.

"What happened to the others in your crowd?" asked Bert in a weak voice, as he steered carefully down the rough road.

"All flat—all five of 'em!" affirmed Harry, but be neglected to state that his five chums were lying on the ground, rolling over in their mirth.

"None of 'em got away, then, but you?" chattered Bayliss.

"Do you think I'd let you take this car away from here?" demanded Hazelton indignantly, "if there were any more of our fellows to get away from here? What would you fellows count for if it were necessary to save more of my friends?"

"It must have been a fearful fight," shivered Dodge.

"It was," said Harry grimly, striving with all his might to keep from bursting out in laughter. "I never had any idea that a gun fight was such an awful thing!"

"Prescott got his, then?" asked Bayliss.

"All five of my friends," replied Hazelton, in a choking voice. "And I've some traces of the fight to show myself."

"How badly bit are you?" demanded Dodge.

"I'll last all right until I get to Gridley," Harry predicted, "if you fellows don't keep me talking too much."

"I didn't intend going to Gridley to-night," Dodge replied.

"Yes, you will," Hazelton replied firmly. "I must go to Gridley. You drive straight there. I'll hold you responsible, if you don't."

Bert began to believe that he would be held accountable if he failed to take Hazelton to Gridley, so he gave in without protest. At any rate, both Dodge and Bayliss wanted to get as far as possible from the recent "horror," and as speedily as they could do it.

"There's no chance of our being attacked on the road to Gridley?" asked Bayliss by and by, in a quavering voice.

"No," replied Hazelton. "The lake will be between us and the trouble makers."

It was rough going most of the way. Hazelton was disinclined to talk. Bayliss' nerves were too shattered for him to feel like indulging in conversation. Dodge, white-faced, his cap pulled well down over his eyes, showed all that he knew about running a car carefully and as speedily as was possible over such rough roads.

It was after two o'clock in the morning when the car turned into the stretch of Main Street, Gridley.

"We'll go to the police station with the fearful news," proposed Bert Dodge.

"No, we won't," retorted Hazelton. "We'll go to the 'Blade' office. Mr. Pollock, the editor, is one of Dick's best friends, and he'll know better than anyone else in town what ought to be done."

So with hands that trembled Bert drove the car up in front of the "Morning Blade" office. All three leaped out, Dodge and Bayliss eager to get into the glow of lights and among human beings.

As Harry's feet struck the sidewalk he remembered his character as a wounded man and tried to totter up the steps in a realistic fashion.

In the "Blade" building the press was rumbling busily as the inside pages of the paper were being run off.

Mr. Pollock, all alone in the editorial part of the plant, looked up in astonishment as the ghastly-hued Dodge and Bayliss appeared. The editor's feeling turned to consternation when he saw Hazelton's seemingly pitiable condition.

"Hazelton, what can have happened?" gasped the editor, leaping to his feet.

"Take me into another room!" pleaded Harry. "You two fellows," indicating Bert and his chum, "stay out here."

Though he didn't guess the answer, Mr. Pollock led young Hazelton into the mailing room and turned on the light there.

"Sh-h-h!" warned Hazelton, his face lighting up impishly. "Dodge and Bayliss tried to play a trick on Dick & Co. and Prescott has turned the laugh on them."

"But these blood-stained bandages?" questioned the astounded editor.

"It's stuff that is used for coloring strawberry ice cream. Dick bought it at a store. Looks like the real thing, doesn't it?"

"It looked real enough to give me a bad turn," admitted the editor dryly.

Then, in whispers, Harry told the story as rapidly as he could. Mr. Pollock's face took on a broader grin as he listened.

"I'd hate to have young Prescott for my enemy," confessed the "Blade's" editor. "But this is the most atrocious joke I've ever known him to put up."

"We had to put a stop to Dodge and Bayliss," Harry smiled. "Perhaps you'd better go back to Dodge and Bayliss, now—but please don't let 'em know that it's all a joke."

"I won't spoil the thing," promised the editor, and hastened out.

"I'll be with you in just a minute, gentlemen," nodded Mr. Pollock to Dodge and Bayliss, as he entered the editorial room, then sprang into the telephone closet, closing the door after him.

Mr. Pollock telephoned the sheriff of the county, and also the officer in charge at the Gridley police station, giving the officials a hint of the joke at the second lake, so they wouldn't rush away on a fool's errand in case the wild story reached their ears.

"Now I'll listen to what you two may have to tell me," announced Mr. Pollock, coming out of the telephone closet. "Then I'll have to ask you to hurry away, as Hazelton will have to be attended to and many things done. Talk fast, if you please."

Dodge and Bayliss poured out what they knew of the night's business.

"And how did you two happen to be there?" inquired Mr. Pollock.

"Oh, we—we—we were touring in that part of the country, and were fixing a break-down when Hazelton came running up," stammered Bert Dodge.

"It was fortunate, indeed, for Hazelton, that you had that break-down," replied the editor. Then his manner showed Dodge and Bayliss that it was time for them to go. Both were glad to get out of the "Blade" office, for they feared to stand too much questioning from one as keen as the newspaper man.

XXI. REAL NEWS AND "PUNK HEROES"

"Bayliss, no matter what happens," whispered Dodge, as the two young men climbed into the car outside, "don't you ever let it be found out that we went to the camp of Dick & Co. to play a joke on Prescott and the others. The awful way this night's work has turned out would make the town too hot for us."

"Don't you be afraid of my becoming loose-tongued," chattered Bayliss. "Ugh! I don't believe I'll ever want to talk to anyone again. Bert, do you really believe that all of the fellows but Hazelton were really wiped out?"

"They—they must have been," gasped Dodge.

"It's fearful!"

"It is," Dodge assented, as he threw on the speed. "I never liked Prescott, but to-night's awful work is something that I'd have been willing to have saved him from if there had been a way to do it.

"Which way are you heading?" asked Bayliss suddenly.

"To Dr. Bentley's. If he's at home, I want to hustle him to the 'Blade' office. I believe he's the Hazelton family's physician. Bayliss, any sign of attention to Hazelton on our part will look well for us at a time when we're likely to be asked many questions about how we came to be so near to their camp. We've got to be mighty careful, or in the excitement that will follow the awful fate of Prescott and his friends the town might grow so hot for us that we'd be all but lynched. Now, no one can prove that we weren't on a trip, and that our car broke down on the road; that we heard the fire of rifles, and the next thing we knew Hazelton, badly wounded, came rushing up to us, and that we brought him in as fast as we could. Now, let's make up a story as to just what trip we were taking when we broke down on the road a mile from their camp."

The two plotters quickly planned out their story.

"Here's Dr. Bentley's office," said Dodge, as they turned a corner. "You stay in the car, Bayliss. I can attend to this better." So Dodge was soon pouring a tale of woe and tragedy up through the night speaking tube into the astounded, half-suspicious ears of Dr. Bentley.

Then Bert Dodge drove with Bayliss to the latter's home, after which Bert quakingly drove the car around to his own home, where he roused his father to hear the strange news. Nor was it long ere the whole Dodge family was listening, awe struck.

In the meantime Hazelton was exhibiting to Mr. Pollock, with many a chuckle, the "Quaker" rifle that he had brought into the office wrapped in his jacket. Harry also displayed the bottle of strawberry coloring for ice cream that had supplied the color to his head bandage.

Ting-a-ling! rang the telephone. It was Dr. Bentley on the wire, inquiring whether Dodge had been guilty of a hoax in calling him up to go to the "Blade" office in order to attend Hazelton.

With many a chuckle Mr. Pollock told Dr. Bentley, under injunction of secrecy, the story of the night's doings. When Dr. Bentley heard the story of this latest "outrage" by Dick & Co. he laughed heartily. "Well, well," he mused, "what will Dick and his friends be up to next?"

"Hazelton," ordered Mr. Pollock, "you take the old overcoats you'll find in that closet and arrange them on top of one of these long tables. Get some sleep. I'll call you in time for you to get word to the parents of Dick & Co. after six in the morning. As for me, I shall expect to get no sleep until I've put this big news story in shape."

Yet that morning's issue of the "Blade" didn't contain a word on the subject. Mr. Pollock was wise enough to write the story, then save it for appearance at the proper time.

By six o'clock Harry was aroused. A closed cab, its driver pledged to secrecy, was at the door to carry Harry on his rounds. He visited the parents of all the members of Dick & Co., informing them that the story they might soon hear was not based on any facts that need alarm them.

Before seven o'clock that morning Dodge and Bayliss, wild-eyed and haggard looking, met at Bert's home. Mr. Dodge took them, soon after, down onto Main Street with him.

The first public whisper of the news sent it flying fast over Gridley.

By nine o'clock Main Street was unwontedly crowded. Groups of men, women and young people everywhere discussed the "awful news." Those who had been privileged to hear Dodge and Bayliss tell the story were looked upon as most interesting people.

Of course a few Gridleyites tried to find the parents of the "slain" boys and express their sympathy, but the parents of the members of Dick & Co., strangely enough, could not be found.

With many repetitions of the story, Dodge and Bayliss almost unintentionally began to picture themselves as heroes, who had risked their lives in order to bring the single survivor away to safety.

"There's some good in young Dodge and Bayliss, after all," was a not infrequent comment that morning.

"It must have taken real nerve, anyway, for them to make that thrilling rescue of Hazelton," said others.

So Dodge and Bayliss, much to their astonishment and not a little to their delight, found themselves somewhat in the hero class. Their exhausted, wild-eyed, haggard appearance gave more color to the story of the harrowing experience they claimed to have undergone in rescuing Hazelton from that awful field of carnage up by the second lake.

At ten o'clock Mr. Pollock's automobile drew up at the rear door of the "Blade" building. Hazelton slipped out, crouching low in the car, that he might not be seen and recognized, while Mr. Pollock and his star reporter, Len Spencer, openly entered and drove away. They made straight for the wilderness camp of Dick & Co. Once out of the town Harry rose to a comfortable seat, and made up some of his lost sleep during the trip.

One thing that puzzled the excited citizens of Gridley was the placid way in which the chief of police and the sheriff of the county appeared to take the sad news.

Mr. Pollock drove his car as close to camp as he could, after which he and his companions hurried over the uneven ground until they came upon five high school boys seated outside.

"How did it all work out, Harry?" shouted Dick, leaping up as soon as he saw his approaching comrade.

"It is working in great shape, you young scoundrel!" roared Editor Pollock, gripping Dick Prescott's hand. "And the yarn is going to make the biggest and best midsummer sensation that the 'Blade' has ever had!"

Mr. Pollock and Len Spencer remained at camp for something like an hour and a half, enjoying a trout luncheon before they left.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when editor and reporter reached the "Blade" office.

At five o'clock the "Blade" put out a bulletin, around which a crowd collected in no time. The crowd grew to such proportions that the policeman on the beat tried in vain to make it "move on."

That bulletin read:

"Lake Tragedy All a Tremendous Hoax: Read the 'Blade's' six o'clock extra."

At a few minutes before six o'clock Len Spencer began to arrange one of the street windows of the "Blade" office.

First of all, from hooks, he suspended Dodge and Bayliss' "ghosts" of the night before.

"What does that mean?" asked the wondering onlookers.

Then an unexploded bomb bearing the trademark of the Sploderite Company was put in the window. It was followed by the siren whistle that Bayliss had dropped in his flight. Then four "Quaker" wooden guns, a red-stained bandage and a partly used bottle of strawberry ice cream coloring appeared.

Promptly at six o'clock newsboys appeared on the street with the exciting announcement:

"Extree! Extree 'Bla-ade'! All about Dick & Co.'s latest! The best joke of the season!"

Papers went off like hot cakes. Before the evening was over more than two thousand copies of that edition had been sold. Many more than two thousand people had crowded to the "Blade's" show window to catch a glimpse of the exhibits described in the rollicking news story.

"Pshaw! Dodge and Bayliss, the heroes!" shouted one man in the crowd, as he ran his eye through the story.

"Punk heroes!" answered someone else in the crowd.

The story was cleverly told. Dodge and Bayliss were not mentioned by name, but described only as a pair of amateur jokers whose plans had miscarried. Yet the plain, unvarnished story cast complete ridicule over Bert and his friend.

While the fever of the reading crowd was at its height someone shouted:

"Here they come now!"

Bert and Bayliss had just driven around the corner in the car. During the last three hours both had slept at Bert's, but now they were out and abroad again in order to hear the latest developments.

Suddenly a hush fell over the crowd. Bert and Bayliss were allowed to drive in silence to the curb.

Then, just as suddenly, a dozen men leaped at the car, dragging both youths to the sidewalk.

"Wha-a-at's wrong?" faltered Bert Dodge.

"We'll soon show you!" came the jeering answer of the captors.

Then a mighty shout of derision went up from the crowd.

XXII. TOM TELLS THE BIG SECRET

"Take 'em to the horse trough!" roared more than one voice.

So Dodge and Bayliss, the centre—of a jeering, resolute crowd, were dragged down the street a short distance. The crowd swelled in numbers.

"Stand Dodge on the edge of the trough, and make him read the paper!" shouted one man.

That was accordingly done. Bert was shaking so that he had to be supported in the place chosen for him.

Bayliss was whimpering in abject terror.

"Now, read this in the 'Blade,' Dodge," ordered a tormentor, shoving a paper forward. "Read it aloud."

Bert began, in a wavering voice.

"Louder!" yelled a score of voices from different points in the crowd.

Bert tried to obey, but his voice was shaky.

However, he read the article through to the end, while the crowd waited ominously.

"Heroes, weren't you?" jeered many voices when white-faced Bert had finished the reading.

"Duck him!" came the answer.

Bert was well splashed in the water of the trough. Then Bayliss shared the same fate.

"Now—git! Travel fast—both of you!" came the order.

Nor did Bert or Bayliss need any further commands. Frightened as they were, they nevertheless summoned the strength to run desperately. No one struck them, even in fun. Only jeers assailed them. Neither boy made any effort to get back to the automobile, but both kept on until they had turned a corner and vanished from sight.

"Pity we didn't have some rifle fire to tie to their coat tails," laughed one citizen. For the "Blade" had made it plain that firecrackers, exploded in packs, had provided the sounds of gun fire up at the camp on the second lake.

"Oh, we'll make somebody sweat for this outrage!" quivered Bert, his face dark and scowling, as he and Bayliss slowed up on a quiet side street. "There are laws in this land! We might even get damages out of someone!"

"I feel as if I had collected about all the damage I want for a few days," muttered Bayliss, gazing down ruefully at his drenched clothing and water-logged shoes.

"I wonder who'll take this car home?" asked one of the men in front of the "Blade" office.

"Where is my son?" inquired Mr. Dodge, pushing his way through the crowd without any suspicion of what had lately happened. "Isn't my son here to take this car home?"

"I doubt if he'll come back," replied one man, with a twinkle in his eyes.

"'Blade'? Extree 'Blade'?" demanded a newsboy, holding out a paper.

"Better take one, Mr. Dodge," advised a man in the crowd. "Mighty interesting reading in this extra!"

Almost mechanically the banker paid for a paper, folded it, then stepped into the automobile.

On his arrival home, and after having turned the car over to his chauffeur, Mr. Dodge went to his library, despite the fact that he knew his dinner was waiting.

There he spread out the extra "Blade" on a table and began to read the featured news story.

As he read the elder Dodge flushed deeply. Though the names of Bert and Bayliss were not mentioned, he had no difficulty in connecting them with the ludicrous story.

Turning, Mr. Dodge rang. A man servant answered.

"Mrs. Dodge wishes to know, sir, when you are coming to dinner," said the man.

"Ask Mrs. Dodge, from me kindly to let the dinner go on, and say that I am busy, now, but will come to the table as soon as I am at leisure. Then ask Mr. Bert to come here to me at once."

Bert entered. He had removed his wet garments, and put on fresh clothing. He had been at dinner when interrupted by his father's message.

"This extraordinary story in the 'Blade' refers to you, does it not?" inquired the banker, shoving the paper before the young man.

"Yes, sir," Bert admitted sulkily.

"You and your friend, Bayliss, have been making fools of yourselves, have you?"

"No, sir," cried Bert. "We were made fools of by others."

"When it comes to making a fool of yourself, Bert, no one else is swift enough to get ahead of you," replied his father witheringly. "So, you have succeeded in making the entire family objects of ridicule once more? I had hoped that that sort of thing had ceased when I sent you away to a private school."

"We were imposed on," flushed Bert angrily. "Nor has the outrage stopped there. Bayliss and I were seized in front of the 'Blade' office, and taken over to the horse trough and ducked!"

"Was it done thoroughly?" inquired the banker ironically.

"A thorough ducking?" gasped his son and heir. "I should say it was thorough, sir!"

"Then I wish that the incident would make sufficient impression on you to last you a few days," went on Mr. Dodge bitterly. "I doubt it, however."

"Father, I want you to back me in having some of my assailants arrested for that ducking!"

"I shall do nothing of the sort," rejoined the banker. "The ridicule that this affair has brought upon my family has gone far enough already. You are my son, but a most foolish one, if not worse, and I feel that I am under obligations to the men or boys who carried you to the horse trough and endeavored to cure you of some of your folly."

"I had hoped, sir, that you would stand back of your own son better than that. I am positive that Mr. Bayliss will not allow the outrage to pass unnoticed. I believe that Mr. Bayliss will take stern measures to avenge the great insult to his son."

"What Mr. Bayliss may do is Mr. Bayliss' affair, not mine," replied the banker coolly. "Is young Bayliss in this house at present?"

"Yes, sir; he's at the dinner table."

"Then I won't urge you to be inhospitable, Bert, let him finish his dinner in peace. After dinner, however, the sooner young Bayliss returns to his home, or at least, goes away from here, the better I shall be pleased. As for you, young man, I have had enough of your actions. I have a nice, and very quiet, summer place in mind where I am going to send you to-morrow. You will stay there, too, unless you wish to incur my severe displeasure. I will tell you about your new plans for the summer after breakfast to-morrow, young man."

"You're always hard on me," grumbled Bert sullenly. "But what do you think about Dick Prescott and his friends?"

"As for young Prescott," replied the banker, "he is altogether above your class, Bert. You should leave him severely alone. Don't allow yourself to attempt anything against Prescott, Reade, Darrin, or any of that crowd. You will find that any one of them has too much brains for you to hope to cope with. I repeat that you are not at all in their class as to brains, and it is quite time that you recognize the fact. Now, you may return to your dinner. Be good enough to tell your mother that I will be at table within fifteen minutes. Present my apologies to your mother for not having been more prompt. Now—go!"

Bert Dodge left his father with the feeling that he resembled an unjustly whipped dog.

"So I've got to go away and rusticate somewhere for the summer, have I?" wondered Bert angrily. "And all on account of such a gang of muckers as the fellows who call themselves Dick & Co.!"

Nor did young Bayliss fare any better on his return home that night. He, too, was ordered away for the remainder of the summer by his father, who had just returned from abroad, nor was he allowed to accompany Bert Dodge.

What of Dick & Co. during all this time?

They had gone away on an avowed fishing trip and they were making the most of it.

Harry Hazelton attended to perch fishing, when any of those fish were wanted. Tom Reade and Dan made the most of the black bass sport, while Dick, with Dave and Greg as under-studies, went after trout.

Several trips were made down to the St. Clair Lake House, and on each occasion large quantities of bass and trout were sold to the proprietor. He took all their offerings.

As a result of the sales of trout and bass some substantial money orders were forwarded to the elder Prescott, to be cashed by Dick on his return.

One afternoon Dick, who had gone trout fishing alone, returned with so small a string of the speckled ones that some of Tom's bass had to be added to the supper that night.

"I've been doing rather an unsportsmanlike thing, I fear," admitted Dick.

"Then 'fess up!" ordered Tom Reade.

"The trout are beginning to bite poorly," Prescott went on. "The fact is, we've all but cleaned up the stream."

"There must be a few hundred pounds left there yet," guessed Dave.

"There may be, and I hope there are," Prescott went on, "but I've decided not to take any more trout out of the stream this year. Whatever are now left in the stream we must leave for next summer. No good sportsman would ever deplete a stream of all its trout."

"The bass are still biting fairly well," mused Tom aloud. "However, they're not as easy to catch as they were. Had we better leave the bass alone, also?"

"We might take out what bass we want to eat," Dick suggested, "but not attempt to catch any more than that this summer."

"Too bad," muttered Tom. "I was in hopes that we were going to put by a big stake in the bank, to be divided later on."

"We already have money enough for our purpose," Dick suggested. "We have sufficient funds to take us all away on a fine jaunt during August, and these are the last days of July, now.

"I hate to go away from this lake," muttered Dave.

"It has been very pleasant here," Prescott agreed, "and if the rest of you vote for it, I'll agree to put in the rest of our summer vacation hereabouts."

"No," dissented Tom. "I reckon change of scene and air is as good for us as it is for other folks."

"Tom wants to get where he can find more bass fishing," Greg laughed.

"I've had enough of that sport to last me for one summer," retorted Reade.

The day was closing in a gorgeous sunset. In fifteen minutes more the sun would be down, but there would still be left the long July twilight.

"Did any of you ever see a more beautiful summer day than this has been?" asked Harry Hazelton presently.

"I haven't anything to offer in the line of such experience," Tom confessed.

"There are some days," Hazelton went on half dreamily, "that somehow makes a fellow feel thoroughly contented with himself."

"That's the way I feel to-night," Tom admitted, with an indolent air.

"I'd be contented if I knew one thing, and I suspect that you fellows might be able to tell me, if you only would."

None noticed the twinkle in Prescott's eyes as he spoke.

"I'll offer!" cried Tom good-humoredly. "If it's anything I can tell you, I'll do it."

"S-t-u-n-g!" spelled Dick slowly.

Tom suddenly sat up, glaring suspiciously at his chum.

"Now, what have I let myself in for?" demanded Reade.

"You gave your word you'd tell me, if you could, Tom," Dick went on, "and no one else can tell me nearly as well as you can. What I want to know is this: What happened to you, that night a few weeks ago, when you broke a bottle under my window, and then started down the street as fast as you could go with a crowd of Gridley folks behind you?"

"You promised!" chorused the other four boys.

"Well, if that isn't a low-down way to dig out of me what is purely my own business!" exclaimed Tom Reade, with a scowl.

Nevertheless Tom, like the other members of Dick & Co., had a high idea of the sacredness of his word, so, after a sigh, he went on:

"When I ran away from your window, Dick, with that pack of people behind me, I dashed into a full-fledged scrape that was none of mine. You know that Mr. Ritchie, whom some of the Central Grammar boys plague so fearfully, just because he always gets so mad and makes such threats against all boys in general?

"Well, it seems that, while I was helping Timmy Finbrink out of his difficulties, and afterwards tried to fool you with the fake window-breaking, some of the Central fellows had been down at Ritchie's playing tick-tack on one of his front windows. Tick-tack is a stupid game, and it got me into a mess that night.

"It seems that Mr. Ritchie had already been bothered that evening before the Central fellows began, and he had telephoned to a friend down the street who had two college boys visiting him. So the friend and the two college fellows went out, on their way to Mr. Ritchie's. Then he heard the tapping on his window again, and Mr. Ritchie ran out through the front door. The fellows who had been doing the trick had just time to drop behind a flower bed.

"I had shaken off the crowd that started after me from Main Street, and had turned the corner down that side street. As luck would have it, I had just passed the Ritchie gate when Mr. Ritchie opened his front door. He thought I was the offender, and started after me, yelling to me to stop. Just for the exercise I kept on running, though not so fast, for I wanted to see how far Mr. Ritchie would chase me. And then I ran straight into the friend and the two college boys.

"Those college boys tried to collar me. I was foolish enough to stop and tackle. I had one of them on his back, and was doing nicely with the other, when the two men joined in. I was down and being held hard, while Mr. Ritchie was threatening to have me sent to jail for life—for something I hadn't done, mind you!

"As I ran by the Ritchie yard I saw the three Central Grammar School boys hiding behind the flower bed. It made me mad, I suppose, to think that college boys, who aren't real men, anyway, should stoop so low as to try to catch a lot of grammar school prankers, so I fought back at my captors with some vim. Of course I got the worst of it, including the bruise on my cheek, but I mussed those two college boys up a bit, too. Then, when I got on my feet, the two college boys still holding me, I demanded virtuously to know what it was all about. Mr. Ritchie explained hot-headedly. I told him I could prove that I had just come from Main Street, but my captors didn't let go of me until we came to Mr. Ritchie's. Then I saw at a glance that the Central fellows had made a good get-away, so then I told Mr. Ritchie how the trick had been done against him. I showed him just how the string had been rigged, and pointed out the spot where the Central boys had flopped down behind the flower bed. Their footprints were there in the soil to show it. By this time all hands were ready to believe that a high school senior hadn't been up to such baby stuff, and Mr. Ritchie apologized to me. I was pretty stiff about it, though, and told Mr. Ritchie that I would consult with my parents before I'd decide to let such an outrageous assault pass without making trouble for my assailants."

"What did your folks say about it?" pressed Danny Grin eagerly.

"Dalzell, aren't you the little innocent?" asked Reade, with good-humored scorn. "Of course I never said anything to my folks about such a foolish adventure as that. But I'll wager that I left Mr. Ritchie worried for just the next few days. Now, you fellows know the whole yarn—and I don't think much of Dick's way of buncoing me out of it, either."

"Don't all turn at once," said Dave in a very low tone, "but, behind you, through the fork in the cleft rock, the Man with the Haunting Face is staring this way. Be careful, and we may——"

But, as if shot from spring guns, all five of the others were up on their feet and running fast toward that strange man who had furnished their lake mystery without solving it.

XXIII. "FOUR OF US ARE PIN-HEADS!"

"Oh, you fellows have spoiled it!" groaned Dave as he joined last of all in the chase.

From the tent to the cleft rock was perhaps a hundred and twenty yards.

For such sprinters as these members of the Gridley High School eleven it did not require much time to cover the distance. Yet, by the time that Danny Grin, in the lead, had reached the further side of the rock there was no sign of the presence of the Man with the Haunting Face.

"You dreamed it, Dave," charged Greg Holmes.

"No, I didn't, either," muttered Darrin, joining the group of puzzled youngsters. "I saw the face as plainly and positively as I see any of your faces."

"It's hard to believe that," muttered Tom, shaking his head.

"I was wide awake, and my eyesight is good," Darry insisted.

"Then where has your man gone?" asked Dick. "If he had run to any point near here we would have found him."

Dave Darrin began to pry about, looking for some concealed opening near the base of the cleft, rock. He explored diligently, but could find no such clue as he had hoped.

"Nonsense! I'm going back to camp," declared Tom Reade.

"So'm I," Hazelton agreed.

"Dave can't have been mistaken," offered Greg.

"Thank you for one trusting soul," said Dave gratefully.

"But one thing I do know," Greg went on.

"What?" asked Darry.

"Even if our strange fellow was here, he is here no longer, and moreover, he has succeeded in getting away without leaving any trace," young Holmes continued. "So I'm going to join the delegation that returns to camp."

Only Dick and Dave were left standing there by the cleft rock.

The sun had sunk below the horizon, but the light was still strong.

"If you fellows had taken it easily, as I asked," complained Dave, "we might have gotten hold of that elusive chap. To me he looked hungry. I thought he was eyeing our camp longingly, as though he'd like to stroll down and ask us for food. But that startling charge of the light brigade must have bewildered or frightened him—and so he went up in smoke, as he has always done when we've sighted him.

"It wouldn't surprise me if we could find which way he has gone," whispered Prescott.

"What do you mean?"

"Look where I'm pointing with the toe of my boot," Dick went on.

"I'm looking."

"Do you see anything?"

"The earth."

"Look harder!"

Down went Darry to his knees.

"Look out," warned Dick, "or you'll obliterate it."

"And I was bragging of my good eyesight," grunted Darry. "Why, this is a footprint, and none of our crowd saw it."

"Besides, it's the print of a bare foot," Prescott went on. "You see the way in which it is pointing?"

"Yes; toward that patch of low bushes yonder. But our chap couldn't have run through those low bushes, or we'd have seen him."

"Yes; if he had been holding himself erect."

"Or even had he crouched and run," Dave affirmed.

"Dave Darrin, you've played baseball, if my recollection serves me correctly."

"Of course."

"Did you ever slide for a base?"

"What——"

"Or see anyone else slide for base?"

"Then our man——"

"He held himself low and ran as far as the bushes," Dick went on. "Then he fell and slid for it through the low bushes. See, here's the second print of a bare foot, and the direction is the same."

"Don't tell our mutton-head chums about it," Darrin begged. "Let's follow it up ourselves."

"All right," nodded Dick; "but if we find our fellow, don't let him suspect that we've reached his hiding place and know it. We'll just see what we can find out, and not give ourselves away."

"Go ahead," begged Darry.

"Remember, I'm not certain that we can find the fellow's hiding place before dark. It may be some distance from here. We'll try, though, and hope for luck."

Dick sauntered easily along in the direction indicated by the two footprints.

As they entered the patch of low bushes both boys noted the fact that the ground had been slightly disturbed, as it might have been by the sliding of a human body over it.

Dick, whose eyes were keener, easily followed the marks on the ground. Indeed, he did so without appearing to pay much heed to the earth under his feet.

Then the trailers passed three trees, behind which the escaping man might have found good cover.

A hundred yards further on Dave and Dick entered the edge of a grove of trees. Here there were also several rather thick tangles of brush and bush.

Well inside of one clump Dave, with a start, fancied he saw something that looked like a wall woven of green leaves. But Dick was trudging on ahead. Prescott continued in the lead for another quarter of a mile before he turned.

"You passed the one real sign," murmured Darry at last.

"I know I did," agreed Dick, "and we're going back wide of that place. You mean the jungle where you saw a bit of what looked like the brush-woven wall of a bush hut?"

"Yes," assented Darrin.

"It's a well-hidden place," declared Dick, "and I don't so much wonder that we didn't find it before. But now we'll go back to camp."

"And what next?"

"I don't know," Prescott confessed, looking puzzled. "We really haven't any right to pounce on the man unless we catch him doing something. Anyone has a right to lead the wild life in the woods, unless he's a criminal or a lunatic."

"My vote is that our chap is a lunatic," suggested Darry.

"If he is, then he's a harmless one, anyway. Let's go back, by a roundabout way, and tell the fellows."

"There are four pin-heads in this camp," was Tom Reade's decision, when he heard the report brought back by the others. "Only two of us have brains enough to see anything that's written right on the face of the earth."

"But what are we going to do about our man?" asked Greg.

"That's what we must figure out," Dick replied. "I don't see that we can do anything except send word to the authorities down in the village, and let them act as they see fit."

"What authorities are there in the village?" Dave inquired.

"I don't know. That we'll have to find out. We——"

Dick paused suddenly, listening keenly.

"Do you fellows hear that?" he whispered.

"I hear a rumble of wheels off in the distance," replied Greg. "The air is so wonderfully still that sound carries a long way this evening."

Dick ran into the tent, returning with an envelope and a pad of paper.

"Come along, Dave," Dick requested. "And you'd better bring Tom's flashlight. It will be dark before we get back."

The battery of the flashlight having had a good rest, now furnished an excellent light again.

As the two chums set off at a trot Greg inquired:

"Now what are that pair up to?"

"Being one of the four pin-heads belonging to this outfit," Tom made solemn reply, "I can only guess."

"Then what's your guess?" quizzed Danny Grin.

"From the sound that wagon makes rolling over the rough road," Tom answered, "I judge that it's headed for the village. If it is, Dick is going to send in a note by the driver, and thus save one or two of us the tiresome sixteen-mile round trip."

Which proved to be a very correct guess, for Prescott and Darrin, returning three quarters of an hour later, informed the others that Dick had halted the driver, asking the farmer to wait while the note was being written.

"I sent the note to the post-master," Dick. went on. "If he and the other folks in the village take enough interest in the matter, I imagine a constable will be sent up to-morrow."

"Perhaps to-night," hinted Dalzell.

"If you were a constable," asked Tom, "would you want to be pulled out of your bed and sent on such a trip in the night time?"

"I'll tell you one thing that we fellows want to do," hinted Darrin, a few minutes later. "When we go to bed we want to take pains to leave some food where it can be easily borrowed by our man of mystery. I've an idea that he has been making night trips down here once in a while to obtain something to eat."

"Two or three times I've thought I missed food in the morning," nodded Greg. "Yet, if our man has been getting all his food here, then he is a very light eater."

"And welcome to the little he borrowed," Dick finished.

"Drowsiness is overcoming curiosity for me," yawned Reade, as he rose and strolled toward the tent. "Any of you other fellows going to turn in?"

"I will," yawned Dalzell, "if you'll permit me to sleep in the same tent with you."

Fifteen minutes later all of the high school boys were sound asleep. They all dreamed that night of the Man with the Haunting Face.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

"Where's that man you wanted us to look at?" demanded a farmer whose trousers were tucked into his boots.

It was about ten o'clock the next forenoon when this man, accompanied by another man with the same kind of boottops, strode into the camp of Dick & Co.

"Are you a constable from the village, sir?" inquired young Prescott.

"No; we haven't any constable in the village," replied the farmer, chewing at a straw. "I'm the Overseer of the Poor."

"We'll take you to where we think the man is hiding," Dick replied. "Tom and Dave, suppose you two hurry ahead of us, around the woods, and stand where you can head our man of mystery off in case he tries to run the other way. Dave knows where the place is."

Reade and Darrin promptly departed.

"We can start in two or three minutes from now, after they get in position, if that suits you, sir," Dick suggested.

"Suits me," nodded the Overseer of the Poor. "I'm in no great hurry. Snug camp you boys have here."

"We've enjoyed ourselves greatly," Dick admitted.

"Going to stay here long?"

"No, sir; we're due back in Gridley soon."

After a little more chat Dick stated that he believed it was time to go forward to the hut in the woods.

He and Greg went, accompanied by the two farmers. All four trod stealthily. Prescott, in advance, went straight to the bushes that surrounded the brush hut. Still in the lead, Dick, found the doorway, screened by a tattered blanket, pushed it aside and peered in.

On the floor of earth lay the Man with the Haunting Face. He was so still that at first Dick thought him dead. Dick motioned to the others to come forward.

"Humph!" grunted the Overseer of the Poor. "That's Ed Hoskins, who lives over Pelham way."

At sound of the voice the sleeping man quivered, opened his eyes, then, with a scream, sat up, trembling violently.

"You've got me!" he screamed. "You've found me—and I'm not yet fit to go!"

Dick stepped aside to let the farmers in, while Darrin and Reade approached the spot at a run.

"Keep quiet, Hoskins," ordered the Overseer of the Poor. "Quiet, man; I tell you!"

"Oh, I didn't mean to do it!" moaned the unhappy captive. "I didn't mean to do it, I tell you! And now I must lose my life before I'm fit to go."

"'Touched' here," murmured Prescott, tapping his forehead.

"What are you making such a fuss about, Ed Hoskins?" demanded the Overseer of the Poor.

"I never meant to harm my wife!" screamed Hoskins in an agony of fear. "We had had words, and I meant nothing but to push her aside so I could pass. But she fell downstairs. It wasn't my fault that her neck was broken!"

"Whose neck was broken?" demanded the farmer.

"My wife's. But I never meant to do it."

"Humph!" remarked the Overseer of the Poor. "If your wife broke her neck, Ed Hoskins, she doesn't know it yet. She's doing some pretty husky work. She's the hired help over at St. Ingram's. She went there to work after you went away."

"Don't try to fool me," trembled Hoskins. "Don't! My wife's dead, and now I've got to go and pay the penalty of a crime I never meant to commit."

"What you need, Ed," observed the Overseer of the Poor, "is a bath, a couple of square meals, a little daylight, and a freight load of common horse sense. Come out of this place. We'll take you to your wife, and you'll find that she's very much alive, and heart-broken over your running away from her. She's fretting because she thinks her own conduct made you run away from her."

"I guess we don't belong here," murmured Dick to his chums. "Suppose we hurry down to the camp."

Five minutes later the two farmers also reached camp, holding Hoskins between them.

"It all shows what a man's fool way of reasoning—or, rather, not reasoning—can bring him to," explained the Overseer of the Poor in a low voice to the boys. "Ed Hoskins isn't exactly one of life's heavyweights, but he was always a good enough fellow, and industrious. He married a good-hearted, simple-minded girl, and they were mighty devoted to each other. But, back the last of May, Ed and his wife had a little bit of a tiff. They were standing near the top of the stairs in their house. Ed, according to his own story, went to push her aside so he could go downstairs, when his wife lost her balance and fell half way down the stairs. She fainted, I reckon, and Ed, in a great fright, thought she had broken her neck. So he ran down the stairs past her, got out of the house with a pair of blankets, a little food and a hatchet, and started up this miserable road in the night time. He says he knew he'd have to go to the electric chair some day for his deed, but he wanted to come up here and prepare his soul before he gave up his life. He says he got along all right until you boys came up here on purpose to find him and run him down for the law. He tells me that the first time some of you crossed the lake in a canoe he rigged up some bushes to a wooden frame, and swam, with his head inside the frame, hoping to get close to you and hear what you had to say about him. Then, he tells me, you moved your camp across the lake, and he knew you were here on the law's business. He says he has known, for certain, all along, that you'd get him sooner or later, but he couldn't get up the strength of mind to leave here. What I told Ed about his wife was true. She got nothing worse out of her fall than a bruise on one elbow. Gosh! Ed's wife will be as tickled to see him alive as he'll be to see her strong and well."

"Hoskins is a little touched in the upper story, isn't he?" Dick asked.

"Maybe he has been lately," replied the Overseer of the Poor. "But when he finds I haven't lied to him he'll be O.K. right away. Ed was never too strong in his mental works, but he's a good fellow, just the same, and he's bright enough for his trade—blacksmith's helper. Now, I guess I'd better be going back with him, for Ed will be all excitement and dread till he gets the first word from his wife. Miss. Hoskins wife be terribly obliged to you young men. I am, too, 'cause I'll be glad to see that couple together again. They're so fond of each other that they've no business apart. So I reckon, Master Prescott and the rest of you young men, we'll be a-going now."

The visitors had soon left the camp behind them. The last seen of Hoskins, he was walking with the dazed air of a man who knows he's dreaming and is mortally afraid to wake up.

But that same day Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins were reunited and began life anew together.

"It all goes to show," the Overseer of the Poor afterwards explained philosophically, "what a fool a fellow is to be afraid to go back and look at his work. It's the same spirit that makes automobile cowards afraid to stop the machine and go back to look at the child they've hit. Any fellow that's afraid to go back and look at his mistake is bound to be mainly unhappy in life."

A very few days afterwards Dick & Co., still propelling the push cart by turns, arrived in Gridley toward dark one late July evening.

They had so much to tell their relatives and friends that none of them got to bed very early on that occasion.

However, the month of August lay before them. These boys now planned the greatest summer vacation trip that they had ever enjoyed. Part of the trail of this vacation lay over in Tottenville.

So, by ten o'clock the next morning, Dick Prescott, alone, hurried up the side street on which he lived. Just as he neared the Main Street corner he beheld a trolley car labeled "Tottenville" pass the corner. Dick's shrill whistle rang out, but the conductor failed to hear it.

Away raced Dick in the wake of the speeding trolley car. Down the street for two blocks he dashed after it.

At first it looked as though the high school boy would overtake the car. But when he saw the car turn a corner and go off on the Tottenville road, young Prescott slowed down, panting and wiping his perspiring face.

"Hey!" called a man standing in a group of others on the curbstone. "Were you trying to catch that car."

"Was I trying to catch the car?" echoed Dick Prescott, his eyes opening wide in amazement. "No, sir! I made a wager that I could chase that car right off of Main Street! And I won the bet," Dick added proudly. "You all saw me do it!"

Then, while the man who had asked the question reddened under the laughter of his companions, Prescott strolled slowly back up Main Street to watch for the next car bearing the "Tottenville" sign.

"Good morning, Prescott," came a greeting from Lawyer Ripley, just then coming out of a store. "How did you young men enjoy that collapsible canoe?"

"That canoe, sir? It made the vacation trip a perfect one. But were you the one who sent it, Mr. Ripley?"

"Yes," assented the lawyer, "though acting as agent for another. You remember how much Mr. Page wanted to do for you boys, after your splendid work for him last summer? Mr. Page wanted to do something for you this summer, and he and I hit upon the collapsible canoe as a remembrance so simple and inexpensive that you young men were quite likely to accept it."

"Mr. Ripley," begged Dick earnestly, "will you accept the very best thanks of us all for that canoe? And will you please convey our deepest gratitude to Mr. Page? We couldn't have had anything that would have delighted us as much."

Readers of the preceding volume of this series are well aware of the reason of Mr. Page's great gratitude to Dick & Co.

The next Tottenville car that came along had Dick Prescott for one of its passengers.

This narrative, however, has been finished. That trolley, to Tottenville really belongs to the next and final volume in this series, which is published under the title, "The High School Boys' Training Hike; Or, Making Themselves 'Hard as Nails."

This new story will be found to contain the full record of a most wonderful vacation jaunt taken by six young champions of the Gridley High School football squad.

Yet this jaunt did not consist wholly of training work, for Dick & Co. fell in with a lot of tremendously exciting adventures.

What these were and how Dick & Co. acted under amazingly strange circumstances will be set forth fully in that volume.

THE END

THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE

or

Making Themselves "Hard as Nails"

CONTENTS

I. Mr. Titmouse Doesn't Know Dick

II. The Deed of a Hero

III. The Peddler and the Lawyer's Half

IV. Peddler Hinman's Next Appearance

V. Dave Does Some Good Work

VI. The No-Breakfast Plan

VII. Making the Tramps Squirm

VIII. When the Peddler Was "Frisked"

IX. Dick Imitates a Tame Indian

X. Reuben Hinman Proves His Mettle

XI. Tom Idealizes Working Clothes

XII. Trouble With the Rah-Rah-Rahs

XIII. A Snub and the Quick Retort

XIV. Dick & Co Make an Apple "Pie"

XV. Making Port in a Storm

XVI. Home, Hospital and Almshouse

XVII. Two Kinds of Hobo

XVIII. Dick Prescott, Knight Errant

XIX. "I'll Fight Him for This Man!"

XX. In the Milksop Class?

XXI. The Revenge Talk at Miller's

XXII. Under the Sting of the Lash

XXIII. Timmy, the Gentleman, at Home

XXIV. Conclusion

I. MR. TITMOUSE DOESN'T KNOW DICK

"We thought ten dollars would be about right," Dick Prescott announced.

"Per week?" inquired Mr. Titmouse, as though he doubted his hearing.

"Oh, dear, no! For the month of August, sir."

Mr. Newbegin Titmouse surveyed his young caller through half-closed eyelids.

"Ten dollars for the use of that fine wagon for a whole month?" cried Mr. Titmouse in astonishment. "Absurd!"

"Very likely I am looking at it from the wrong point of view," admitted Prescott, who fingered a ten dollar bill and was slowly smoothing it out so that Mr. Titmouse might see it.

"That wagon was put together especially for the purpose," Mr. Titmouse resumed. "It has seats that run lengthwise, and eight small cupboards and lockers under the seats. There is a place to secure the cook stove at the rear end of the wagon, and the stove rests on zinc. Though the wagon is light enough for one horse to draw it, it will hold all that several people could require for camping or for leading a regular gipsy life. There is a special awning that covers the wagon when needed, so that on a rainy day you can travel without using umbrellas or getting wet. You can cook equally well on the stove whether in camp or on the road. There are not many vehicles in which you can cook a full meal when traveling from one point to another."

"Nor is it every stewpan or kettle that would refrain from slipping off the stove when driving the wagon over rough roads," laughed Dick good-humoredly.

"Well—er—of course, one has to choose decent roads when touring with a wagon of that sort," admitted the owner.

"Then you don't think ten dollars a fair price?" Dick Prescott inquired thoughtfully.

"For a month's use of the wagon? I do not," replied Mr. Newbegin Titmouse with emphasis.

"And so you decline our offer of ten dollars?" Prescott asked, looking still more thoughtful.

"I certainly do," replied Mr. Titmouse.

Then the owner of the wagon began to descant glowingly upon the many advantages of going on a road hike aided by the service that such a specially constructed wagon would give. In fact, Mr. Titmouse dwelt so enthusiastically upon the value of his wagon that Dick shrewdly told himself:

"He's very anxious—unusually so—to rent us that wagon. I've already found out that he hasn't used the wagon in two years, nor has he succeeded in renting it to anyone else. The wagon is so much useless lumber in his stable."

"I wouldn't rent that wagon to everyone," Mr. Titmouse wound up.

"No, sir," Dick agreed heartily, yet with a most innocent look in his face. "Not everyone would want the wagon."

"I—I don't mean that!" Mr. Titmouse exclaimed.

"In fact, sir," Dick went on very smoothly, "I have learned that you have been offering the wagon for sale or hire during the last two summers, without getting any customers."

"Eh?" demanded Mr. Titmouse in some astonishment.

"Naturally, sir," Dick went on, "before coming here to see you I made a few inquiries in Tottenville. I discovered that in this vicinity the wagon is something of a joke."

"What's that?" questioned the other sharply. "My camping wagon a joke? Nothing of the sort. And, if it is a joke, why did you want to get it?"

"Oh, all of our fellows can stand a joke," laughed young Prescott "So I came over to see just what terms we could make for the use of your wagon during the month of August."

"Well, I'll be as fair with you as I can," Mr. Titmouse replied. "From men—grown men—I would want at least thirty dollars a month for the wagon—probably thirty-five. Of course I know that money is not as plentiful with boys. I'll let you have the wagon for the month of August at the bottom price of twenty-five dollars."

Dick smilingly shook his head.

"I've named the best price I could think of taking," insisted Mr. Titmouse. "Come into the wagon shed and have another look at it."

"Thank you, sir, but there is no use in looking at the wagon again, when such a price as twenty-five dollars is asked for a month's hire," Dick answered promptly.

"Come inside and look at it again, anyway," urged Mr. Titmouse.

"Thank you, sir, but I must get back to Gridley at the earliest possible moment."

"If you didn't want to hire the wagon," asked Mr. Titmouse testily, "what was the use of taking up my time?"

"I do want to hire it," Dick admitted, "but since hearing your price I have realized that I don't want the wagon half as much as I did at the outset."

It was notable about Mr. Titmouse that he would gladly talk for three hours in order to gain a dollar's advantage in any trade in which he was interested. He was a small man, with small features and very small eyes which, somehow, suggested gimlets. He bore about with him always an air of injury, as though deeply sensitive over the supposed fact that the whole world was concerned in getting the better of him.

Though Mr. Titmouse had acquired, through sharp dealing, usury and in many other ways a considerable sum of money and property in the course of his life, yet he was not the man to part with any of it needlessly.

The special wagon now resting in the wagon shed at his home place in Tottenville had been designed by him at a time when people all through the state had been much interested in outdoor life. The Titmouse wagon had been built as the result of much thought on the part of its designer. It certainly was a handy kind of wagon for campers to use on the road. Mr. Titmouse had spent four weeks of wandering life, going from point to point and trying to talk up the merits of his wagon. He had hoped to establish a small factory, there to build such wagons to order at high prices.

For some reason he had met with no success in that enterprise. After his realization of failure Newbegin Titmouse had felt that he would be content if he could sell the wagon at anything like a good price. Failing to sell it, he hoped to be able to get his money back through renting the wagon.

Now he stood watching this high school boy from Gridley, wondering just how much rental he could extort from this wiry, athletic-looking football player.

"There will be a car along in about five minutes," mused Dick aloud. "I must try to take that car. Thank you very much for your kindness, Mr. Titmouse."

"But we haven't come to any understanding yet," cried the wagon's owner as Dick turned and walked away.

"Why, yes, we have, sir," Prescott answered pleasantly over his shoulder. "We have come to the understanding that you can't afford to come down to our price, and that we can't go up to yours. So I'm going back to make some other arrangements for a wagon."

"Wait a minute!" interjected Newbegin Titmouse, stepping after the boy from Gridley. "Maybe I can drop off a dollar or so on the price."

"Much obliged, sir; but it wouldn't help us any, and it's almost time for the car," was Prescott's answer.

"What's your best offer? Make it!" urged Mr. Titmouse restlessly.

"Seven dollars for the wagon for the month of August," Prescott replied.

"Seven? Why, only a minute or two ago you offered me ten dollars!"

"I know it, sir," said Dick coolly. "You will recall that you declined that offer, so I am at liberty to make a new offer."

"You'll have to make a better——"

"If you decline seven dollars," Dick smiled pleasantly, "my next offer, if I make one, will not go above six."

Mr. Titmouse felt, of a sudden, very certain that the high school boy would stand by that threat.

"Seven dollars doesn't land me clear for the season," complained Newbegin Titmouse. "I've spent nine dollars already in advertising the wagon."

"Then, if you don't take my seven dollars," Prescott proposed, "you'll be out quite a bit of money, Mr. Titmouse. I see my car coming in the distance. So good——"

"I'll take ten!" called Mr. Titmouse, as Dick once more turned away.

"Six," smiled Dick significantly. "But I haven't time to stay here and dicker, sir. Good——"

"Hold on!" fairly screamed Mr. Titmouse, as Dick, nodding at him, started to run to the corner.

"Then I'll stop and talk it over with you, sir," answered Prescott, going back. "But I don't say that I'll agree to take the wagon."

"Now, don't you try to work the price down any lower," exclaimed Mr. Titmouse, looking worried.

"No, sir; I won't do that," Dick promised. "I won't say, yet, that I'll take the wagon, but I will agree that I'll either take it at six dollars or refuse the chance altogether. I've just happened to think of something that I want to make sure about"

"What is it?" asked Mr. Titmouse apprehensively.

"I forgot to look at the tires on the wheels," Prescott went on. "I want to make sure that they're sound, so that we fellows won't have to take the chance of paying a blacksmith to make new ones before we've been out a week."

The tires were in excellent condition, so the little man had no objection whatever to showing them.

"Good, so far," nodded Prescott. "Now, next, I'd enjoy looking at the axles and the hub-nuts."

"You're not the lad who is going to allow himself to be cheated," laughed Mr. Titmouse admiringly. "The hubs and axles are all right, so I've no objection to showing them to you."

"I'm satisfied with the wagon," Dick declared, a few minutes later. "Now, Mr. Titmouse, I'll pay you the six dollars if you'll make out a satisfactory receipt for the money."

"Come into the office and tell me what you want me to say in the receipt," urged Newbegin Titmouse, leading the way across the stable into a little room in the furthermost corner.

The receipt was soon made out, the money paid and the receipt in Dick's pocket.

"I'll either come for the wagon myself, or send one of the other fellows," Dick promised. "If I send for it I'll also send a written order."

"I hope you boys will have a pleasant time this summer," chirped Mr. Titmouse, who, though he had been badly out-generaled in the trade, had at least the satisfaction of knowing that there was some money in his pocket that had come to him by sheer good luck.

"We're going to try to have the finest good time that a crowd of fellows ever had," Dick replied, after nodding his thanks. "I've missed that car, and shall have quite a little wait."

"Perhaps you'd like to sit under a tree and eat a few apples," suggested Mr. Titmouse.

Dick was about to accept the invitation with thanks when Mr. Titmouse added:

"I've a lot of fine summer apples I gathered yesterday. I'll let you have three for five cents."

This attempt at petty trade, almost in the guise of hospitality, struck Dick as being so utterly funny that he could not help laughing outright.

"Thank you, Mr. Titmouse," he replied. "I don't believe I'll eat any apples just now."

"I might make it four for a nickel," coaxed the little man, "if you agree not to pick out the largest apples."

"Thank you, but I don't believe I'll eat any apples at all just now," Dick managed to reply, then made his escape in time to avoid laughing in Mr. Titmouse's face.

Once out on the street, and knowing that he had some twenty minutes to wait for the next car, Dick strolled slowly along.

"I didn't know that boy," muttered Newbegin Titmouse, looking after Prescott with a half admiring gaze, "and I didn't size him up right. He offered me ten dollars, and then got the wagon for six. Whew! I don't believe I ever before got off so badly as that in a trade. But I really did spend five-fifty in advertising the wagon in the Tottenville and Gridley papers this summer, so I'm fifty cents ahead, anyway, and a fifty-cent piece is always equivalent to half a dollar!"

With which sage reflection Mr. Newbegin Titmouse went out into his small orchard to see whether he had overlooked any summer apples that were worth two dollars a barrel.

Dick sauntered down the street for a few blocks ere he heard the whirr of a Gridley-bound trolley car behind him. He quickened his pace until he reached the next corner. There he signaled to the motorman.

As the car slowed down Dick swung himself on nimbly, remarking to the conductor:

"Don't make a real stop for me. Drive on!"

As Prescott passed inside the car he was greeted by a pleasant-faced, well-dressed young man. It was Mr. Luce, one of the sub-masters of Gridley High School. Dick dropped into a seat beside him.

"Been tramping a bit, Prescott?" inquired the sub-master.

"No, sir; I've been over here on a little matter of business, but I expect to start, in a day or two, on a few weeks of tramping."

Thereupon young Prescott fell to describing the trip that he, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had mapped out for themselves.

"Just for pleasure?" asked Mr. Luce.

"No, sir; for training. We all hope to make the football team this fall. We're all of us in pretty good shape, too, I think, sir; but we're going out on this training hike to see if we can't work ourselves down as hard as nails."

"I'd like to go with you," nodded the sub-master.

"Can't you do it, sir?" asked Dick eagerly, for Mr. Luce was a favorite with all the boys.

"Unfortunately, I can't," replied the submaster. "I'm expected at home. My mother and sister claim me for this month. But I wish I could go, just the same."

"You would be most welcome I assure you, sir," replied Dick warmly.

"Thank you, Prescott," returned Mr. Luce with a smile. "I appreciate your invitation and regret that I cannot accept it."

The conversation again turned to the subject of the coming football season, and an animated discussion ensued, as Sub-master Luce was an enthusiastic advocate of football.

Suddenly, Dick, glancing ahead out of the window, turned pale. Without a word of explanation he sprang from his seat and made a bound for the nearer car door, the rear one.

"Everyone off! Stop the car! Hustle!" shouted the high school boy. "Mr. Luce! Come on. Quick!"

By the time the last words were uttered Dick had made a flying leap from the car platform.

By good luck, rather more than by expert work, he landed on his feet. Not an instant did he lose, but dashed along at full speed.

John Luce, though he had no inkling of what had caused the excitement, sprang after Dick.

Dick, however, had not waited to see if the sub-master had followed him. His horror-filled eyes, as he ran, were turned straight ahead.

It needed but a few steps to carry him across the road. He bounded into a field where a loaded hay wagon stood near an apple tree.

The horses had been led away to be fed. Seated on the top of the hay were a boy of barely six and a girl not more than four years old. They were awaiting the return of the farmer.

Down below a six-year-old boy, barefooted and brown as a gipsy, had appeared on the scene during the farmer's absence.

"For fun" this youngster had been lighting match after match, making believe to set the hay afire. As he held the matches as close to the dried hay as he dared, this urchin on the ground called to the two babies above that he would "burn 'em up."

Not all of this did Dick Prescott know, but his glance through the car window had shown him the boy on the ground just as that tiny fellow had lighted another match, shouting tantalizingly to the two children on top of the load of hay.

Just as he called up to them the mischievous youngster tripped slightly. Throwing out his right hand to save himself the boy accidentally touched the bottom of the load at one side with the lighted match.

At this fateful instant it was out of the question to think of putting out the flame that leaped from wisp to wisp of the dried grass.

"Jump!" shouted the young match-burner, but the children above did not hear, or else did not realize their plight.

"Fire! Fire!" screamed the little incendiary, as he ran panic-stricken toward the farm house.

And now Dick was racing as he had never done before, even over the football gridiron. On his speed depended the lives of the two children.

II. THE DEED OF A HERO

At the moment of Dick's leap from the car, Sub-master Luce did not know what had happened. He realized in an instant what was the matter, and made frantic efforts to reach the scene at the same moment with Prescott.

Dick, however, kept the lead.

As the flames shot up through the hay the children on top of the hay began to gather a sense of their awful danger.

Seconds—fractions of seconds—were of priceless value now—if lives were to be saved.

There was still time for the two children to jump over the side on which the flames had not yet appeared, but they were too badly frightened to know what to do.

If they should jump where the flames were leaping up they were almost certain to have their clothing catch fire, with fatal burns as a result.

Dick felt that he did not have time to shout to the frightened children. Besides, his commands would likely serve only to confuse them the more.

Terror-stricken the two little ones clasped each other and stood screaming with fear on the top of the load.

Dick's quick eye had taken in the only chance in this terrifying situation.

Straight for the apple tree he bounded, his first leap carrying him into a crotch in the tree a few feet above the ground.

Out he sprang, now, on a limb of the tree that most nearly overhung the load of hay.

That limb sagged under him—creaked—threatened to snap off under his weight.

But young Prescott, wholly heedless of his own safety, and with only one object in mind, scrambled out on the creaking limb as far as he could; then, with a prayer on his lips, he made a wild, strenuous leap.

Sub-master Luce turned white as he saw what Dick had attempted to do. Had he been made of more timorous stuff the high school teacher would have closed his eyes for that awful instant.

As it was, John Luce saw young Prescott land at the rear end of the load.

Dick felt himself slipping. For one frenzied second, he feared that he had failed. Young Strongheart that he was, he braced all his muscles for the supreme effort—and drew himself up to safer footing on the hay.

Then, like an eagle, he swooped down upon the children. The little girl he snatched from her tiny brother's clasp.

"Here!" called Sub-master Luce from the further side.

Brief as the time was Dick Prescott calculated the distance like lightning. There was no time to call back to Mr. Lucen—nor need to do so.

Aiming with all the precision at his command, Dick threw the child from him.

His aim splendidly true, he had the joy of seeing the child land in Mr. Luce's arms.

Without a moment's loss of time Prescott now snatched up the shrieking boy.

"Ready!" shouted Dick, and a second little body was thrown through the air.

Again did John Luce do credit to his college baseball training, for, hurriedly placing the girl baby on the ground he put up his hands to receive the boy.

"Jump yourself, Prescott!" bawled the submaster hoarsely.

But Dick was already in the air. With the flames shooting up and seeming fairly to lick his face, Dick had had no time to calculate his jump.

On the ground, some feet beyond the wagon, Prescott landed, sprawling on all fours.

He leaped up, however, his face twitching yet with a laugh on his lips.

Behind him the whole load of hay now flared up, crackling and hissing.

"Hurry back out of the heat!" yelled John Luce, leaping forward, seizing young Prescott and dragging him several yards away.

Dick turned in time to see the whole glowing mass cave in.

Had he arrived on the scene a few seconds later than he did both children would have perished miserably.

Now, from the house came a white-faced man, running as though some demon animated him. Behind him came a woman even paler.

Toward father and mother ran the pair of little tots, wholly unmindful of their rescuers.

As for the older, match-burning boy, that youngster half scared to death, had dashed away into hiding to escape the wrath that he knew must soon seek him.

"That was simply magnificent, Prescott!" said the sub-master enthusiastically. "But I honestly believed that it would be your last good deed."

While the sub-master spoke he was running both hands up and down over the high school boy's clothing, putting out many glowing sparks that had found lodgment in the cloth.

"It was easy," smiled Dick. "Thank goodness I saw the trouble in time!"

"There are others who are thankful that you saw it in time," uttered John Luce, as he looked toward the parents, now coming up as fast as they could, each with a child clasped in arms.

From the road went up a loud cheer. The trolley car had been halted and backed down to the scene. Though there were few people on the car, they made up amply in enthusiasm for their lack of numbers.

As for the farmer and his wife, though they tried to thank Dick and Mr. Luce, they were too completely overcome with emotion to express themselves intelligibly.

The wagon that had held the hay was now blazing fiercely. As for the hay, that had already burned to a fine powder.

"How—how did you ever get here in time?" cried the rejoicing mother brokenly.

It was the conductor of the trolley car, just reaching the spot, who told how Dick Prescott and Mr. Luce had leaped from the moving car. The sub-master described Dick's feat in climbing the apple tree and leaping from the limb of the tree to the top of the loaded hay wagon.

"It was a nervy thing for any man to do!" choked the farmer, tears of joy running down his cheeks.

"It was just like Dick Prescott," replied John Luce simply.

As soon as possible Dick and the sub-master made their escape from the earnest protestations of gratitude of the farmer and his wife, though they did not go until Mr. Luce had persuaded the parents not to whip the mischievous match-burner, but to content themselves with pointing out to the little rascal the dreadful possibilities of such pranks.

At last, however, Dick and Mr. Luce returned to the car followed by the other passengers. The conductor gave the go-ahead signal, and the motor-man started in to try to make up some of the time lost from his schedule.

Dick, as soon as he reached Gridley, went up to Greg Holmes' house, where he knew his chums would be waiting to learn the result of his Tottenville trip.

That evening Sub-master Luce chanced to take a stroll up Main Street. As the offices of the "Morning Blade" were lighted up, Mr. Luce stepped inside, seeking Editor Pollock in the editorial room.

"Is Prescott about?" asked Mr. Luce, for Dick, as our readers know, earned many a dollar as a "space-writer"; that is, he was paid so much a column for furnishing and writing up local news.

"Dick went out about ten minutes ago," replied Mr. Pollock.

"Was he here long?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"By the way, Mr. Pollock," the sub-master went on, "what do you think of Dick's latest feat?"

"Which one?"

"His fine work over on the Tottenville road this afternoon?"

"I haven't heard of it," replied Mr. Pollock, opening his eyes.

"Come to think of it," rejoined John Luce, "and knowing young Prescott as I do, I don't suppose you have heard of it—not from Prescott, at all events."

Then the sub-master told the story of the burning load of hay in a way that made the "Blade's" editor reach hastily for pencil and paper that he might take notes.

"That's just the kind of story that Dick Prescott never could be depended upon to bring in here—if he was the central character in it," observed the editor quietly.

Despite the failure of Dick to bring in this particular story, however, the "Blade," the next morning, printed more than a column from the data furnished by Mr. Luce.

Dick, however, didn't hear of it—in Gridley. It was Harry Hazelton, who, at four o'clock, mounted a horse he had hired for the trip and rode over to Tottenville, where the camp wagon was obtained from Mr. Newbegin Titmouse. Hazelton wasted no time on the road, but drove as fast as the horse could comfortably travel.

It was but a few minutes after six o'clock, that August morning, when Dick Prescott and his five chums, collectively famous as Dick & Co., drove out of Gridley.

Harry Hazelton was now the driver, the other five high school boys walking briskly just ahead of the wagon.

Mr. Titmouse's special vehicle carried all that Dick & Co. would need in the near future, and the six boys were setting out on what was destined to be their most famous vacation jaunt.

III. THE PEDDLER AND THE LAWYER'S HALF

Just before leaving Gridley, Greg Holmes had bought a copy of the "Blade" from a newsboy.

Three miles out, the chums enjoyed their first halt.

"Ten minutes' rest under this tree," Dick announced, for already the August morning sun was beating down upon them.

Greg drew out his copy of the newspaper, unfolding it.

"Say!" he yelled suddenly.

"Stop that," commanded Tom Reade, "or you'll make the horse run away and wreck our outfit."

"But this paper says——"

"Stop it," ordered Tom with a scowl. "I know what you're going to do. You'll read us some exciting stuff, and get us all worked up, and then in the last paragraph you'll stumble on the fact that some well-known Tottenville man was cured of all his ailments by Brown's Blood Bitters."

"Can you hold your tongue a minute?" demanded Greg ironically.

"Not when I see you headed that way," retorted Reade. "I've been fooled by the same style of exciting item, and I know how cheap it makes a fellow feel when he comes to the name of the Bitters, the Pills or the Sarsaparilla. Holmesy, I want to save your face for you with this crowd."

"Will you keep quiet, for a moment, and let the other fellows hear, even if you have to take a walk in order to save your own ears?" demanded Greg, with sarcasm. "This piece is about Dick Prescott, and he doesn't sign patent medicine test——"

"Dick Prescott?" demanded Darrin. "Whoop! Let's have it!"

"It isn't a roast, is it?" demanded Danny Grin solemnly.

"No; it isn't," Greg went on. "Listen, while I read the headlines."

It was a four-line heading, beginning with "Dick Prescott's Fine Nerve."

"There! I was afraid it was a roast, after all," sighed Danny Grin.

"Take that fellow away and muzzle him," ordered Greg, then proceeded to read the other sections of the headlines.

By this time Greg had a very attentive audience. Even Tom Reade had ceased to scoff.

"Oh, bosh!" gasped Dick, when Greg was about one third of the way through the column article.

"Isn't it true?" demanded Dave.

"After a fashion," Dick admitted.

"Then hold off and be good while the rest of us hear about yesterday's doings."

So Dick stood by, his face growing redder and redder as the reading proceeded.

"That's what I call a dandy story," declared Greg as he finished reading.

"Dick, why didn't you tell us something about it last night?" demanded Hazelton.

"What was the use?" asked Prescott. "And, though I've always thought the 'Blade' a fine local newspaper, I don't quite approve of Mr. Pollock's judgment of news values in this instance. I suspect that Mr. Pollock must have been away, and that Mr. Bradley, the news editor, ran this in."

"It sounds like some of Len Spencer's stuff," guessed Dave. "He's great on local events."

"If they had to print the yarn, eight or ten lines would have covered it," Dick declared. "Fellows, we've used up eighteen minutes for our halt, instead of ten. Come on!"

Greg, however, after rising, and before starting, was careful to fold the "Blade" neatly and to tuck it away in a pocket. He meant to save that news story.

All of our readers are familiar with the lives and doings of Dick Prescott and his friends up to date.

"Dick & Co.," as the boys styled their unorganized club of chums, was made up of the six boys, who had been fast friends back in their days of study at the Central Grammar School of Gridley.

They had been together in everything, and notably so in athletics and sports. All that befell them in their later days at Central Grammar School is told fully in the four volumes of the "Grammar School Boys Series."

Yet it was when these same boys entered Gridley High School that they came into the fullest measure of their local fame and popularity. Even as freshmen they found a chance to accomplish far more for school athletics than is usually permitted to freshmen. It was due to their efforts that athletics were put on a sound financial basis in the Gridley High School. All this and more is described in the first volume of the "High School Boys Series," entitled "The High School Freshmen."

But it was in the second volume of that series, "The High School Pitcher," that our readers found Dick & Co. entered fully in the training squads of one of the most famous of American high schools. As described in the third volume, "The High School Left End," Dick & Co. were transferred from the baseball nine to the gridiron eleven, and by this time had become the undisputed athletic leaders of Gridley High School. These honors they had not won without tremendous opposition, especially by the formation of the notorious "Sorehead Squad" to oppose their hard earned supremacy in football. Yet Dick & Co. ever went strenuously forward, in manly, clean-cut fashion, working unceasingly for the furthering of honest American sport. Between the plottings of their enemies and a host of adventures on all sides, the school life of Dick & Co. proved exciting indeed.

In the "High School Boys' Vacation Series" our readers have followed the summer doings of Dick & Co. as distinguished from the doings of their crowded school years. The first volume devoted to the vacations of Dick & Co., "The High School Boys' Canoe Club," describes the adventures of our lads in an Indian war canoe which even their slender financial resources enabled them to buy at an auction sale of the effects of a stranded Wild West Show. In the second volume of this series, "The High School Boys In Summer Camp," our readers came upon an even more exciting narrative of keenly enjoyed summer doings, replete with lively adventures. In that volume the activities of Tag Mosher, a strangely odd character, kept Dick & Co. continually on the alert. In the third volume of the vacation series, entitled "The High School Boys' Fishing Trip," were chronicled the things that befell Dick & Co. while away on a fishing expedition that became famous in the annals of Gridley school days. This third volume was full to the brim with the sort of adventures that boys most love. Some old enemies of Dick & Co. appeared; how they were put to rout is well known to all our readers. How Dick & Co. played a huge joke, and several smaller ones upon their enemies, is described in that volume.

In this present volume will be recounted all that befell Dick & Co. in August after completing their junior year in Gridley High School, just as the preceding or third volume dealt with the happenings of July of that same summer.

After that first halt Dick & Co. plodded on for another hour. But Prescott, noting that Hazelton was still on the driver's seat of the camp wagon, blandly inquired:

"Harry, if you sit up there, lazily holding the reins, how do you expect to get your share of the training work of this hike?"

"Perhaps I'd rather have the comfort than the training work," laughed Hazelton.

"That will never do!" smiled Dick. "Suppose you climb down and let Danny Grin take your place at the reins until the next halt. I suspect that Danny boy already has a few pebbles in his shoes, and that he'll be glad enough to look over the world from the driver's seat."

"I'm willing to sacrifice myself for the good of the expedition, anyway," sighed Dalzell, as Harry drew rein. "Come down with you, Hazy, and begin to share the delights of this walking match!"

The change of drivers made, Dick & Co. plodded on again.

"It seems to me that we ought to put on more speed," suggested Dave Darrin.

"Are you in a hurry to get somewhere, Darry?" drawled Tom Reade.

"No," Dave replied, "but, if we're out for training, it seems to me that we had better do brisker walking than we're doing now, even if the horse can't keep up with us."

"We're making about three miles and a half an hour," Dick responded.

"But will that be work enough to make us as hard as nails?" persisted Darry.

"We're getting over the ground as fast as the troops of the regular army usually travel," Prescott rejoined. "I believe our regulars are generally regarded as rather perfect specimens in the walking line. We might move along at a speed of six miles, and might keep it up for an hour. Then we'd be footsore, and all in. If the first hour didn't do it, the second hour would. But if we plug along in this deliberate fashion, and get over fifteen, eighteen or twenty miles a day, and keep it up, I don't believe any one of you fellows will complain, September first, that he isn't as hard and solid as he wants to be—even for bucking the football lines, of other high schools."

"I know that I can be satisfied with this gait," murmured Reade.

"If Darry wants to move faster," suggested Hazelton, "why not tell him where to wait for us, and let him gallop ahead?"

"I'll stay with the rest of you," Darry retorted. "All I want to make sure of is that we're going to get the most out of our training work this summer."

"I'll tell you what you might do, Dave, by way of extra exercise and hardening," offered Tom.

"What?" asked Dave suspiciously.

"I believe we're going to halt every hour for a brief rest"

"Yes."

"While the five of us are resting under the trees, Darry, you might climb the trees, swinging from limb to limb and leaping from tree to tree. Of course you'll select trees that are not directly over our heads."

"Humph!" retorted Dave.

"Try it, anyway," urged Tom, "it's fine exercise, even if you give it up after a while."

"I'll try it as often as you do," Darrin agreed with a grin.

Their second halt found the high school boys more than six miles from their starting point.

On this trip they were not heading in the direction they had followed on their fishing trip. Instead, they were traveling in the opposite direction from Gridley, through a fairly populous farming region.

At a quarter-past ten o'clock Dick called for another halt. The road map that the boys had brought along showed them that they were now eleven miles from Gridley.

"Pretty fair work," muttered Tom, "considering that these roads were built by men who had never seen any better kind."

"We can more than double the distance," suggested Dave, "before we go into camp for the night."

"If we hike a couple more miles this morning, then halt, get the noon meal and rest until two o'clock," replied young Prescott, "I think we shall do better."

"If we've gone only eleven miles," protested Darrin, "then I'm certainly good for twenty-five miles in all to-day, and I believe the rest of you are, too."

"Wait until we've done eighteen or twenty miles," Prescott proposed. "Then we can take a vote about making it twenty-five."

"For one thing," Darry objected, "none of us actually walks twenty-five miles when we cover that distance. We take turns riding on the wagon, and, as there are six of us, that means that each fellow rides something like four miles of the distance covered."

"What Darry is driving at," proposed Danny Grin, "is that he wants to devote himself wholly to walking hereafter. He doesn't care about driving the horse."

"I'm big enough and cranky enough to do my own talking, when there is any reason for my entering into the conversation," smiled Dave.

At a little after eleven that morning, when thirteen and a half miles had been covered, all hands were willing enough to halt and rest, prepare luncheon and rest again.

"But I still hope we shall cover the twenty-five miles to-day," Darry insisted.

"No difficulty about that, either," declared Harry Hazelton. "Darry, while we are swapping stories over the campfire this evening you can take a lantern and do an extra five miles by way of an evening walk. Then you'll be tired enough to sleep."

"I'll see about it," Darrin laughed.

"And that's the last we'll hear about it," Tom predicted dryly.

"It is the experience of every military commander, so I've read," Dick went on, "that a long march the first day of a big hike is no especially good sign of how the soldiers will hold out to the end. On the contrary, military men have found that it's better to march a shorter distance on the first day and to work up gradually to a good standard of performance."

"All right," agreed Hazelton. "For one, I'm willing to take a rest after eating, and then take the afternoon for getting acquainted with this pretty grove."

"We won't quite do that, either, if I have my way," Prescott laughed. "We ought to do a few miles this afternoon, but not set out to do any record-breaking or back-breaking stunt."

"There goes hazy's dream up in the air," laughed Greg. "I just knew that Hazy was planning how to spend the afternoon napping."

"I'll volunteer to drive all the way, this afternoon," Harry offered. "That will give all of you fellows a chance to harden yourselves more on the first day."

"If you want to know a good definition of 'generosity,' then ask Hazy," snorted Dalzell.

"Come on!" cried Dick good-humoredly. "Scatter. Some for wood, some for water. Tom and I will get the kitchen kit ready for a meal. But we must have the wood and water before we can prepare luncheon."

At that suggestion of something to eat there was a general rush to get things in readiness. As soon as a fire was going in the stove in the wagon, Dick put on a frying pan. Into this he dropped several slices of bacon. Tom, over a fire built on the ground, set the coffee-pot going. In a pot on the stove Dick put potatoes to cook.

Now Dave rattled out the dishes, as soon as Greg and Hazy had set up the folding table. Dan placed the chairs.

"Get ready!" called Dick, as soon as he had fried two platters full of bacon and eggs. Tom, will you try the potatoes?"

"Done," responded Reade, after prodding the potatoes with a fork.

"What shall we do with the food that's left over?" asked Danny Grin, as he began to eat.

"There isn't going to be any food left over," Dick laughed. "You fellows will be lucky, indeed, if you get as much as you want."

Everyone was satisfied, however, by the time that the meal was finished.

"Greg and Harry may have the pleasure of washing the dishes," Dick suggested.

"Oh, dear!" grunted Hazy, but he went at his task without further remarks.

Before one o'clock everything was in readiness for going forward again, save for putting the horse between the shafts of the wagon. Prescott, however, put a proposition to rest until two o'clock before his chums. It was unanimously carried.

Despite his desire for a walking record that day, Darry proved quite willing to lie off at full length in the shade of the trees and doze as much as the flies would permit.

Dick and Tom strolled slowly down toward the road, halting by a couple of trees.

"There's something you don't often see, nowadays," spoke up Tom after a while.

He nodded back up the road. Coming in the same direction that the boys themselves had traveled was a faded, queer-looking old red wagon, much decorated on the outside by a lot of hanging, swinging tin and agate ware.

"That's the old-fashioned tin-peddler that I've heard a good deal about as being a common enough character some forty years ago," said Prescott. "Our grandmothers used to save up meat-bones, rags and bottles and trade them off to the peddler, receiving tinware in return."

"The man on that wagon was doing business forty years ago," remarked Tom. "In fact, judging by his appearance, he must have been quite a veteran at the business even forty years ago."

A bent, little old man it was who was perched upon the seat of the red wagon. Once upon a time his hair had been tawny. Now it was streaked liberally with gray. He was smoking a black little wooden pipe and paying small attention to the sad-eyed, bony horse between the shafts. There was a far-away, rather dull look in the old peddler's eyes.

Just before he reached the boys, whom he had not seen, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, pulled his spectacles down from his forehead and read the paper.

"I don't understand it," muttered the peddler, aloud. "I can't understand it. I wish I had someone to give me the right of it."

"Could we be of any service, sir?" Reade inquired.

Hearing a human voice so close at hand the peddler started for an instant. Then he pulled in the horse.

"I dunno whether you can be of much use to me," answered the peddler slowly. "You don't look old enough to know much about business."

"Still, I know more than anyone would think, from just looking at me," volunteered Reade, reddening a bit as he saw the laughter in Dick Prescott's eyes.

"Maybe you can explain this riddle," went on the peddler, extending the sheet of white paper. "It can't do any harm to give you a chance. You see, I had a bill of twenty dollars against Bill Peterson. The bill had been running three years, and I couldn't get anything out of Bill but promises without any exact dates tied to 'em. I needed the money as bad as Bill did, so at last I went to Lawyer Stark to see what could be done about it. Lawyer Stark said he'd tackle the job if I'd give him half. I agreed to that, for half a loaf is better'n nothing at all, as you may have heard. Then weeks went by, and I heard nothing from Squire Stark. So the other night I writ a letter, asking him how the collection of the bill was coming on. This is the answer he sends me."

So Tom read aloud, from the typewritten sheet, the following remarkably brief communication:

"Dear Sir: Answering your letter of yesterday's date, I have to advise you that I have collected my half of the Peterson bill. Your half I regard as extremely doubtful."

This was signed with the name of Lawyer Stark.

Tom Reade glanced through the note again, then gave vent to a shout of laughter.

"Eh?" asked the peddler looking puzzled.

"I beg your pardon, sir," replied Reade instantly. "I shouldn't have laughed, but this struck me, at first, as one of the funniest letters I ever saw. So the lawyer has collected his half of the twenty and regards the collection of your half as exceedingly doubtful!"

"Shouldn't Lawyer Stark give me half of the ten he got from Bill Peterson?" asked the peddler anxiously.

"Undoubtedly he should," Tom assented, "and just as undoubtedly he hasn't any idea of doing so."

"What do you say, young man?" inquired the peddler, turning to young Prescott.

"Why, sir, if you are asking about your legal chance of getting half of that ten dollars from the lawyer," Dick answered, "then I'm afraid you stand a poor show. If the lawyer won't pay you the money, then you would have to sue him. Even if you won the suit, the fight would cost you a good deal more than the amount you would recover. And the lawyer might beat you, even if you sued him."

"Then—what's the answer?" demanded the peddler slowly.

"I know the answer," said Tom confidently, "but it would be a shame to tell you, sir."

"Just the same, I wish you would," replied the peddler coaxingly.

"The answer," replied Reade, "is that you have been cheated."

"But it looks to me like a mean trick," Dick went on.

"What am I going to do about it?" asked the peddler wonderingly.

"I don't believe you can do anything about it, sir," Prescott answered, "unless you are willing to sue the lawyer, or can make him agree to fair play. But I certainly would drop in to see him and tell him that you expect just half of what he has so far collected."

"I believe I'll do that," replied Peddler Hinman, judging from the address on the letter, that was his name. "I don't like to be made a fool of by any man—especially when I need money as badly as any other man on my route."

Dick took a sweeping glance at the peddler's shabby attire. While, of course, the size of a man's bank account cannot be judged from his wardrobe, Mr. Hinman had the appearance of needing money as much as he declared. The horse, too, looked as though a generous feed of oats would do him good.

"And to think of all the things I know about Squire Stark, too," murmured Mr. Hinman, apparently speaking to himself and not realizing that his words carried to the boys' ears. "If he had a little more judgment, Silas Stark would treat me with more fairness."

"I'm very sorry if I seemed too much amused," Tom apologized earnestly, "but that letter, apart from its meaning to you, really is funny."

"I—I suppose so," assented Reuben Hinman sighing, and the far-away look returning to his eyes. "But I—I need the money!"

"And both of us hope that you will get it, sir, the whole of your half," said Dick Prescott heartily.

"Anyway, I'm much obliged to both of you boys," said the peddler. "Giddap, Prince!"

Somehow, both boys thought that Reuben Hinman drooped more on the seat of his wagon than before. He drove off slowly, evidently doing a lot of hard thinking.

"Poor old man!" muttered Tom sympathetically.

"He looks a bit slow-witted," Prescott suggested. "I'm afraid he has always been going through life wondering at the doings of others, and especially at the success of unprincipled men he has had to deal with."

"Do you know," remarked Reade, gazing after the bent, huddled little figure, "I've a notion that there has been a lot in that poor fellow's life that has been downright tragic."

Tragic? Without doubt! Moreover, though Dick could not guess it, he and his friends were soon to be mixed up in the tragic side of Peddler Hinman's life.

IV. PEDDLER HINMAN'S NEXT APPEARANCE

Camp was made at half-past four that afternoon, nineteen miles having been covered. The tent was pitched in a bit of woods, not far from the road, permission from the owner having been secured.

Dave had asked the owner if they might picket the horse out to graze, but Dick had instantly objected.

"We don't want to feed our hired horse on green grass if we're going to work him hard."

"That's right," agreed the farmer, so twenty cents' worth of hay was purchased, to be added to the feed of oats.

"It's some fun to travel this way when we know we have money enough to pay our way like men," Tom Reade remarked exultingly.

For Dick & Co. were well supplied with funds. As told in the preceding volume in this series, they had, during July, realized enough from the sale of black bass and brook trout to enable them to have a thoroughly good time during this present month of August.

"Oh, Hazy!" called Reade, when it became time to think of supper.

"Here," reported Harry, rising from a cot in the tent and coming outside.

"It's time for you and Dan to rustle the firewood and bring in more water," Reade went on.

"All right," agreed Hazelton. "Where's Dan?"

Where, indeed, was Dalzell? That soon became a problem for all five of the other boys. Danny Grin was nowhere in sight.

"Dan! Oh, Dan!" Dave shouted.

"Where is that grinning monkey of a football player?" demanded Tom in disgust. "Did any of you fellows see him go away from camp?"

It turned out that none of them had.

"It isn't like Dalzell to run away from his share of the work, either," added Greg Holmes.

"If he won't stay and do his share toward getting supper, then he ought to be passed up at table," grumbled Darrin.

"Before we pass sentence," proposed Dick, "won't it be better to wait and find out whether he's guilty of shirking this time?"

"I suppose it would be better," Darrin admitted.

So the boys continued their preparations.

"What shall we have for the main thing to eat to-night?" Dick inquired, after supper preparations were well under way.

"Canned corned beef?" suggested Greg.

"That would be about as good as anything," Tom nodded. "It means two salted meats in one day, but this country is well supplied with water."

"We can't ask Danny Grin's preference this evening," Dick laughed. "I wonder what Dan would like, anyway?"

"Who's taking my name in vain?" demanded a laughing voice, as Dalzell appeared between the trees.

"Oh, you——"

"Shirk!" Reade had been about to add, when Danny held up a fat string of fish. These were horned-pouts, sometimes called "bull-heads."

"How many?" asked Dick promptly.

"Nineteen—one for every mile we made in getting close to the creek," Dan rejoined.

"Great!" cried Greg. "We haven't had any fish, either, since we returned from our trip to the second lake."

"How do you cook bull-heads?" Dave wondered aloud.

"With the aid of fire," Hazy informed him with an air of superior knowledge.

"But I mean—I mean——" uttered Darry disgustedly, "how do you prepare bull-heads for cooking?"

"First of all, you clean 'em, as in the case of any other fish," proclaimed Tom Reade. "I defy any fellow to dispute me on that point."

"And then you wet the bull-head and roll him in corn meal, next dropping him into the pan and frying him to a fine brown," Dick supplemented.

"But we haven't any corn meal," objected Hazy.

"Yes, we have," Prescott corrected. "I saw to that last night. You fellows jump in and clean these fish, fast, while I get out the corn meal and put a pan on the fire."

These boys knew much more about cooking than falls to most boys in their teens. Frequent camping since their good old days in Central Grammar School had made them able to cook like veteran woodsmen.

Within two minutes, fat was sputtering in a hot pan, and Dick was shaking corn meal onto a plate.

"Bring 'em up!" he ordered. "We'll start this thing going."

Twenty minutes later, using two pans, all the bull-heads had been cooked, and now lay on platters in the oven of the stove.

"Three apiece, and one left over," Greg discovered. "Who gets the odd one?"

"Shame on you!" muttered Reade. "The horse gets the odd one, of course."

"A horse won't eat fish," Holmes retorted.

"Didn't you ever see a horse eat fish?" Tom challenged.

"I never did."

"Well, I don't know that I ever did, either," Reade admitted. "So we'll give the odd one to Danny Grin."

"Maybe we'll be glad to," laughed Dave. "I'm not sure that all these bull-heads were alive when Dalzell picked them up."

"Huh!" snorted Dan.

Nothing spoiled their appetite for the fish, however, which were cooked to a turn and of fine flavor. Tom Reade, however, got the odd fish as being the only one whose appetite was large enough to permit of the feat of adding it to three other fish.

"And now, what are we going to do?" asked Dave, after the meal was finished and the dishes had been washed.

"Who has sore feet?" called Dick.

Not one of the six boys would plead guilty to that charge.

"Then we won't have to heat water," Dick announced. "Each fellow can bathe his feet in cold water before turning in. But, when one's feet ache, or are blistered, then a wash in piping hot water is the thing to take out the ache."

By nine o'clock all hands began to feel somewhat drowsy, for the day had been warm, and, at last, these youngsters were willing to admit that their road work had been as strenuous as they needed.

"But to-morrow we'll do twenty-five miles," Dave insisted.

"My opinion is that we'll do well if we make twenty miles to-morrow," Dick rejoined.

"But what are we going to do now?" yawned Hazy, as they sat about under the light of two lanterns.

"Go to bed," declared Greg.

"Hooray! That's the ticket that I vote," announced Hazy.

"I was just thinking of that mean lawyer we heard about to-day," Reade remarked.

"I was thinking of the same matter, but more about the poor old peddler," Dick stated. "That poor old fellow! I'll wager he has had a hard time all through life, and that he's still wondering why it all had to happen. How old would you say Mr. Hinman is, Tom?"

"He'll never have a seventieth birthday again," replied Reade thoughtfully. "My! A man at that age ought not to have to bother with working. It's pitiful. It's a shame!"

"Maybe he finds his only happiness in work," Darrin suggested. "I have known old people like that."

By this time Dan had taken one of the lanterns into the tent, and was undressing. Dave soon followed, then Greg and Hazelton.

"Do you want to take a little walk down to the road, where we can get a better look at the sky?" Dick proposed to Reade. "We ought to take a squint at the weather."

"That will suit me," Tom nodded, so away they strolled toward the road.

"If you fellows stay away from camp long, don't you be mean enough to talk, or make any other noise when you get back to the tent," Darrin called after them.

Down by the road there was a breeze blowing, and it was cooler.

"I'd like to bring my cot down this way," Tom suggested.

"There's no law against it," Dick smiled. "The owner's permission extended in a general way to all the land right around here."

"Will you bring your cot, too?" Tom asked.

"Certainly."

So, before any of the other fellows were asleep, Dick and Tom reentered the tent to get their folding cots and bedding.

"Cooler down by the road, is it?" asked Darrin wistfully. "Then I'm sorry you didn't find it out before I undressed."

"We'll sleep in our clothes," Dick replied. "Come along, Tom, and give the infant class a chance to get to sleep."

After lying, fully dressed on their cots, which they placed within ten feet of the road, Dick and Tom found themselves so wide awake that they lay chatting for some moments.

At last Reade mumbled his answers; next his unmistakably deep breathing indicated that he was asleep. Prescott thereupon turned over on his side and dozed off.

It was shortly after their first few moments of sleep had passed that a noise in the road close by awoke both boys.

Dick sat up leaning on one elbow, listening. Someone was coming toward them.

As the stranger came closer, Dick, his eyes seeing well in the dark, made out the unmistakable form of Reuben Hinman, the peddler.

"What's he doing out here at this hour of the night, and on foot?" wondered Dick Prescott half aloud.

"Eh? What?" asked Reade in a low, drowsy voice, as he opened his eyes.

"It's Mr. Hinman, the peddler," Prescott whispered to his chum. "But I wonder what's wrong with him?"

"I wonder, too," Reade assented. "One thing is certain; something has happened to him."

For Reuben Hinman half-lurched, half-staggered along, yet his gait did not suggest intoxication. He moved, rather, as one who is dazed with trouble.

The old man was sobbing, too, with a sound that was pitiful to hear; as though some great grief were clutching at his heart.

V. DAVE DOES SOME GOOD WORK

"Good evening, Mr. Hinman!" called Dick softly.

The old man started, affrighted.

"Who—who calls?" he quavered.

"One of the boys you talked with, this noon."

"Where are you?"

"Here," answered Dick, throwing his blanket aside, rising and stepping toward the old man, who, more bent than ever, was shaking as though from fright. "Don't be afraid of us, sir. Can we help you in anything?"

"I am afraid not," replied the peddler, then leaned against a tree-trunk, staring, as he tried to stifle his sobs.

"What has happened, sir?" asked Tom Reade, also stepping forward.

"I've been robbed!" replied the old man, in a broken voice.

"Robbed?" repeated Dick. "Do you mean that some villains have stolen the goods from your wagon?"

"No, no!" replied the old man, with sudden, unlooked for vehemence. "I've been robbed, I tell you—my money stolen!"

"Money?" asked Tom in surprise. "How much was taken from you?"

"Four hundred and eighteen dollars," replied the old man, with a lack of reserve that testified to his confidence in these unknown but respectful and sympathetic high school boys.

"All that money?" cried Dick. "How did you ever come to have so much about you?"

"I owe some bills for goods, over at Hillsboro," replied Reuben Hinman, "and this trip was to take me toward Hillsboro. But now——"

He broke off, the strange, rending sobbing returning.

"Perhaps we can help you, bad as the case looks," Tom suggested. "Try to tell us all about it, sir."

"Where did you have the money?" inquired Dick.

"In a wallet, in this inside coat pocket," replied the peddler, holding his frayed coat open at the right side.

"You carried your wallet as conspicuously as that when traveling over lonely country roads?" cried Prescott in amazement.

"I had a lot of letters and papers in front of the wallet, so that no one would suspect that I had the wallet or the money," explained Reuben Hinman.

"I don't see any papers there now," Tom interposed.

"They're gone," replied Mr. Hinman. "Probably the thief thought the papers valuable, also, but they weren't.——"

"You were robbed—when?" asked Dick.

"When I was sleeping."

"At some farm house?" Reade inquired.

"No; I slept on a pile of old rags that I had taken in trade."

"In the wagon?——" from Prescott.

"Yes."

"But why did you sleep in the wagon? And where did you have the wagon?" Dick pressed.

"The wagon was off the road, two miles below here," the peddler explained brokenly. "It would cost me fifty cents for a bed at a farm house, so, when the night is fine, I sleep outdoors on the wagon and save the money. It's cheaper with the horse, too, as I have to pay only for his feed."

"But the money?" Tom pressed the old man. Reuben Hinman groaned, but did not take to sobbing again.

"I woke up to-night, and found it gone," he answered.

"Did you feel or hear anyone prowling about, or searching your clothing?"

"No; if I had discovered anyone robbing me," shivered the peddler, "I would have caught and held on to him. I have strong hands. I have strong hands. Do you see?"

Holding up his wiry, claw-like hands, the old peddler worked the fingers convulsively.

"Then how do you know you were robbed, Mr. Hinman?" Dick insisted.

"Because the money is gone," replied the old man simply.

"You searched the rags, and the surrounding parts of your wagon?" Reade asked.

"Young man, you may be sure that I did."

"And where were you going when we stopped you?"

"For help."

"Whose help?" Dick inquired.

"I don't know," replied the old man blankly. "Perhaps to a lawyer."

"Lawyers don't recover stolen property," rejoined Reade.

"Perhaps not," assented the peddler. "The people whom you should see are the local officers," Dick assured the old man. "Probably they couldn't recover your money, though, since you have no idea who robbed you."

Reuben Hinman groaned helplessly. It was plain to the two high school boys that the peddler had started out, thus, in the middle of the night simply because his misery was too great to permit of inaction on his part.

"I wish we could help you," Prescott went on earnestly.

"Why can't you?" eagerly demanded the peddler, as one who clutches at the frailest straw.

"Call Dave, Tom. Try not to wake the others," murmured Dick. Then, while Reade was gone, Prescott asked:

"Mr. Hinman, why on earth didn't you keep your money in a bank, and then pay by check?"

"No, no, no! No banks for me!" cried the old man tremulously.

"Are you afraid to trust banks with your money?" demanded Dick incredulously.

"No, no! It isn't that," protested the peddler confusedly. "The banks are all right, and honest men run them. But——"

Whatever was in his mind he checked himself. It was as though he had been on the verge of uttering words that must not be spoken.

Dick Prescott found himself obliged to turn his eyes away. It was altogether too pitiful, the look in old Reuben Hinman's shriveled face. In his misery the small, stooped peddler looked still smaller and more bent.

Tom soon came along, carrying a lantern and followed by Dave, the latter yawning every step of the way.

"Now, which way are we going to look first?" Reade inquired.

"I've been thinking that over," Dick replied. "It seems to me that the sanest course will be to start right at the scene of the robbery. From there we may get a clue that we can follow somewhere."

"Yes, that's as good a course as any," nodded Darrin, who had received some of the particulars of the affair from Reade.

So the three high school boys started off down the road together, old Reuben Hinman trudging tirelessly along with them, acting like a man in a trance.

At last they came to the old, red wagon. The tethered horse, disturbed, rose to its feet.

"Now, the rest of you keep away," requested young Prescott, "until I've had time to look all around the wagon with the lantern. I want to see if I can discover any footprints that will help."

For a considerable radius around the wagon the high school athlete scanned the ground. He could find no footprints, other than those of Reuben Hinman, and the fresher ones made by himself.

"Nothing doing in the footprint line, boys," Dick called at last. "Now, come along and we'll search the wagon."

"Let me have the first chance," begged Dave, taking the lantern.

Reuben Hinman showed where he had slept on the pile of rags, but this was hardly necessary, the impression made by his slight body being still visible.

Dave began to rummage. At last he got down into the body of the wagon. With the rays of the lantern thus concealed, the other three stood in darkness.

"Hooray!" gasped Dave at last. Then rising, leaning over the side of the wagon, he called:

"Mr. Hinman, I've found a wallet, with a lot of greenbacks inside. How much I don't know. Please count it and see if all the money is there intact."

With an inarticulate cry the old peddler seized the wallet that was handed down to him. He shook like a leaf as Tom held the lantern for him to count the money. Now that the strain was over, Mr. Hinman's legs became suddenly too weak to support him. He sank to the ground, Tom squatting close so that the lantern's rays would fall where they would be most useful. Thus the old peddler counted his money with trembling fingers.

"Where did you find the wallet?" young Prescott asked Darrin.

"Up against the side of the wagon, under a partly tilted, upsidedown feed-pail," Dave answered. "I can understand why Mr. Hinman didn't find it. He was too much upset—too nervous, and it certainly didn't look like a likely place."

"It must have fallen out of his pocket as he slept," Prescott guessed correctly. "Did you find any papers down there on the floor of the wagon?"

"Yes; some sort of paper stuff," nodded Dave. "I took it for rubbish."

"The money is all here!" cried the old peddler, in a frenzy of joy. "Oh, how can I thank you young men? You don't know what your blessed help means for me!"

"Was it all the money you had?" Dick asked feelingly.

"Yes; all except for few loose dollars that I have in a little sack in my trousers pocket," replied Mr. Hinman.

"Then it was all you had in the world, outside of your peddling stock and your horse and cart?" Prescott continued.

"All except a little house and barn that I own, and the small piece of ground they stand on," said the peddler. "If I had not found my money I would have been obliged to mortgage my little home to a bank—and then I am afraid I could not have repaid the bank, and my home would be taken from me."

"But you would have found the money in the wagon some day soon," suggested Dick.

"Perhaps," replied the peddler. "Who knows? Perhaps someone else would have rummaged the wagon and found it before I did. Oh! It might have been taken a little while ago, even when I was toiling down the road, or talking with you boys at your camp!" he added, with a sudden wave of fright over the thought.

"One thing is certain, anyhow, Mr. Hinman," Dick concluded. "Someone may have overheard you talking with us about this money. You will hardly be safe here. I urge you to come to our camp, and there spend the night with boys who know how to take care of themselves, and who can look after you at need. You will not be attacked in our camp."

Reuben Hinman eagerly agreeing, Dave harnessed the bony horse into the wagon. After a while the red wagon rested within the confines of the camp of Dick & Co.

In the bright light of the morning, Harry Hazelton was the first to be astir. He saw Prescott asleep on the floor of the tent, rolled up in a blanket, while another blanket rested on Dick's cot, brought back to the tent, as though some stranger had slept there.

Outside, attached to the seat of their camp wagon, Hazy found a note that mystified him a good deal at first. It read:

"The sun is now well up. I shall go at once to Hillsboro, and then my great worry will be over. Boys, you will ever be remembered in the prayers of R.H."

"Now, that's mighty nice of R.H., whoever he is," smiled Harry Hazelton, not immediately connecting the initials with the name of the little, old peddler.

Nor was it until Prescott and Reade were astir that Harry was fully enlightened as to the meaning of the words scrawled in pencil on the sheet of paper.

"You boys call me Hazy, and I must look and act the part," laughed Hazelton shamefacedly, "when we can have such an invasion of the camp, and such an early get-away with a loaded wagon, and all without my stirring."

Reuben Hinman was on his way, and, all unknown to himself nearer the hour when he would meet the high, school boys under vastly more exciting circumstances.

VI. THE NO-BREAKFAST PLAN

"Let's get the tent down, fellows," Dick called. "Greg is loading the bedding on to the wagon now."

"Haven't, you forgotten something?" Danny Grin asked.

"What?" challenged Dick smilingly.

"Well, a little thing like breakfast, for instance?"

"We don't get that until after we've had our swim," Prescott rejoined cheerily.

"I suppose that's all right," observed Tom, his jaw dropping. "Still, in that case, Mr. Trainer, why didn't you camp nearer to a stream?"

"The nearest stream fit for swimming is two miles from here," Dick replied. "At least, that's what I judge from the map."

"There's the creek the bull-heads came from," suggested Hazelton hopefully. "That's close at hand."

"I know it is," Dick replied, "but I've had a look at it. That creek is both shallow and muddy. No sort of place for swimming."

One thing these Gridley High School boys had learned in the football squad, and that was discipline. So, though there were some gloomy looks, all remembered that Dick had been chosen trainer during the hike, and that his word, in training matters, was to be their law. So the tent came down, in pretty nearly record time, and was loaded on the wagon. The horse was harnessed, also without breakfast, and the party started down the road with Harry Hazelton holding the reins.

"I hope it's a short two miles," growled Reade to Darrin.

"Humph! A fine Indian you'd make, Tom!" jibed Dave. "An Indian is trained in being hungry. It's a part of the work that he has to undergo before he is allowed to be one of the men of the tribe."

"That's just the trouble with me," Tom admitted. "I've never been trained to be an Indian, and I am inclined to think that it requires training, and a lot of it."

Outwardly Tom didn't "grump" any, but he made a resolve that, hereafter, his voice would be strong for halting right on the bank of a swimming place.

"Can't we hit up the pace a bit?" asked Tom.

"Yes," nodded Dick. "All who want to travel fast can hike right ahead. Just keep on the main road."

Tom, Greg and Dan immediately forged ahead, taking long, rapid steps.

"But don't go in the water until we come up," Dick called after them. "Remember, the morning is hot, and you'll be too overheated to go in at once."

"Eh?" muttered Tom, with a sidelong look at his two fast-time companions. "Humph!"

Then they fell back with the wagon again.

"There doesn't seem to be any way to beat the clock to breakfast," observed Dan, after he had walked several rods down the road.

"I've talked with old soldiers," Dick went on, "who have told me all sorts of tales of war time, about the commissary train not catching up with the fighting line for four days at a stretch. Yet here you fellows feel almost ill if you have to put off breakfast half an hour. What kind of men would you boys make if it came to the stern part of life?"

"If going without breakfast is part of the making of a man," said Danny Grin solemnly, "then I'd rather be a child some more."

"You always will be a child," Dave observed dryly. "Birthdays won't make any great difference in your real age, Danny boy."

"After that kind of a roast," grinned Reade, "I believe I'll take a reef in a few of the bitter things I was about to say."

Dick laughed pleasantly. Somehow, with the walk, all soon began to feel better. That first fainting, yearning desire for food was beginning to pass.

"Do you know what the greatest trouble is with the American people?" asked Dick, after they had covered a mile.

"I don't," Tom admitted. "Do you, Dick?"

"I've been forming an idea," Prescott went on. "Our fault, if I can gather it rightly from what I've been reading, is that we Americans are inclined to be too babyish."

"Tell that to the countries we've been at war with in the past," jeered Tom Reade.

"Oh, I guess it's a different breed of Americans that we send to the front in war time," Prescott continued. "But, take you fellows; some of you have been almost kicking because breakfast is put off a bit. Most Americans are like that. Yet, it isn't because we have such healthy stomachs, either, for foreigners know us as a race of dyspeptics. Take a bit of cold weather in winter—really cold, biting weather and just notice how Americans kick and worry about it. Take any time when we have a succession of rainy days, and notice how Americans growl over the continued wet. Whatever happens that is in the least disagreeable, see what a row we Americans raise about it."

"I imagine it's a nervous vent for the race," advanced Dave Darrin.

"But why must Americans have a nervous vent?" Dick inquired. "In other words, what business have we with diseased nerves! Don't you imagine that all our kicking, many times every day of our lives, makes the need of nervous vent more and more pronounced?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," argued Tom. "I hate to hear any fellow talk disparagingly about his own country or its people. It doesn't sound just right. In war time, or during any great national disaster or calamity, the Americans who do things always seem to rise to the occasion. We're a truly great people, all right. But I don't make that claim because I consider myself ever likely to be one of the great ones."

"Why are we a great people?" pursued Prescott.

"We are the richest nation in the world," argued Reade. "That must show that we are people capable of making great successes."

"Is our greatness due to ourselves, or to the fact that the United States embraces the greatest natural resources in the world?" demanded Dick Prescott.

"It's partly due to the people, and partly due to the resources of the country," Dave contended.

Dick kept them arguing. Harry Hazelton, as driver, remained silent, but the others argued against Dick, trying to overthrow all his disparaging utterances against the American people.

Finally Reade grew warm, indeed.

"Cut it out, Dick—do!" he urged. "This doesn't really sound like you. I hate to hear a fellow go on running down his own countrymen. I tell you, it isn't patriotic."

"But just stop to consider this point," Prescott urged, and started on a new, cynical line of argument.

"I still contend that we're the greatest people on earth," Reade insisted almost angrily. "We ought to be, anyway, for Americans don't come of any one line of stock. We're descended from pioneers—the pick and cream of all the peoples of Europe."

But Dick kept up his line of discussion until they came to the river for which he had headed them. They followed the winding stream into the woods where the trees partially hid them from the observation of passers-by on the road, From this point they could easily keep a watch on the wagon while in the water.

"Now, let's sit down and cool off for five minutes," proposed Dick, as he filled the feed bag for the horse. "After that we'll be ready for a swim."

"But, with regard to what you were saying about frayed American nerves, poor stomachs and all-around babyishness——" Tom began all over again.

"Stop it!" laughed Dick. "We don't need that line of talk any longer."

"Then why did you start it?" asked Dave.

"We've covered the two miles that you all thought such a hardship," chuckled Prescott.

"Then you——" began Reade, opening his eyes wider as a dawning light came into them. "Come on, Dave! Catch him! The water's handy!"

But Dick, with a light laugh, bounded away, shinned up a tree, and, sitting in a crotch, swung his feet toward the faces of Tom, Dave and Harry as they tried to get him and drag him down.

"You've got a strategic position, just now," growled Reade. "But just you wait until we catch you down on the ground again!"

"You fellows must feel pretty well sold," Greg taunted them. "I kept out of the row, for I saw, at the outset, that Dick was going to start something for the sole purpose of keeping us arguing until we forgot all about our breakfasts."

"That's just like Dick Prescott!" uttered Tom ruefully. "We never get to know him so well that he can't start us all on a new tack and have more fun with us."

"Well, you forgot your supposed starvation, didn't you?" chuckled Dick from his tree.

Two or three minutes later he swung down from the tree to the ground, rapidly removing his clothing and donning swimming trunks. He was not molested; the other five were too busy preparing for the bath.

"The water's great to-day!" shouted Dick, rising and "blowing" after a shallow dive from a tree trunk at the shore.

In a moment they were all in the water.

"Come on! Follow your leader!" shouted Tom Reade, striking out lustily upstream.

"Come back and give us a handicap!" roared Dave. "How do you expect us to catch you when you get the lead over us with your long legs and arms?"

But Tom dived under water, swimming there. The others followed suit, each remaining under as long as possible, for, in this "stunt," there was no way of knowing when the leader came up. Tom remained under less than fifteen seconds. Then, showing his head, and with rapid overhand strokes he made for the nearer bank, slipping ashore and hiding behind some bushes.

It was Hazy who had to come up first after Tom.

"Whew! Tom must have met someone he knows on the bottom," called Harry, as Greg's head rose above the surface.

Dave came up next, then Dick, and then Dan.

"Tom ought to be a fish!" uttered Darrin admiringly. "I stayed under water as long as I could."

Yet after going a few yards further up stream Dick Prescott turned, gazing anxiously down stream.

"Fellows," he suggested, "something must have happened to old Tom."

"Or else he's playing a joke on us," hinted Danny Grin, suspiciously.

"It's some joke to remain under water four times as long as the average swimmer can do it," retorted Prescott.

"But Tom may not be under water," spoke up Greg.

"He didn't have time to get anywhere else," Dave declared.

"It may be a joke, but I don't want to take any chances," Dick said earnestly. "Let's go down stream. Spread out, and every now and then bob under and take as near a look at the bottom as you can."

"It doesn't look right," Dave admitted as they all started back.

Several times they went under water, the best swimmers among them getting close to bottom. So they continued on down the stream for some distance.

"Now, all together. Go under water all at the same time," ordered Dick.

Below the surface of the river they went. One after another their heads presently appeared above the surface once more.

"Have you fellows lost anything?" quizzed Reade, suddenly appearing on the bank.

"That's what I call a mean trick on us!" cried Dave, flushing slightly.

"You fellows were in for a swim, weren't you?" Reade drawled. "You have been having it."

With that he took to the water himself. There was something so jovial and harmless about Reade that, despite their recent anxiety concerning him, they made no effort to duck him.

"The water is fine this morning," called Tom presently, as they all swam about.

"Then why didn't you stay in?" demanded Darry rather cuttingly.

"Say, I'm beginning to feel glad that I waited breakfast for the swim," Reade announced.

"Stick to the truth!" mocked Dick.

"But I really am beginning to feel that a little exercise is the best course before breakfast," Tom declared.

"The next thing we hear," scoffed Hazy, "you'll be telling us that you really don't want any breakfast."

"I'll tell you fellows what I'll do," Tom called. "I'll agree to put off eating until noon if you'll all stick to the idea."

But that suggestion did not prove popular.

"I mean it," Reade insisted. "I hardly care, now, whether I eat any breakfast or not."

"What's that noise below? Come on!" called Prescott, landing and running along the bank. Tom was close behind him, the others following.

In their search for Tom they had gotten farther away from the wagon than they realized. During their brief absence from the spot two tramps had come upon the camp wagon and the piles of discarded clothing. It was plain that the wagon contained all that was needed for several meals—and the tramps were hungry.

Yet the only safe way to enjoy that food would be to partake of it at a safe distance from the rightful owners.

For that reason, after a few whispered words, the tramps hastily gathered up all the clothing of the high school swimmers, dumping it in the wagon. Then they mounted to the seat.

Just as Dick Prescott and his chums broke from cover they beheld the tramps in the act of driving from the woods out on the road.

Once in the road the tramps urged the horse to a gallop. It was out of the question for the boys, clad as they were in only swimming trunks to pursue the thieves.

"I—I—take back all I said about not wanting any breakfast!" gasped Tom Reade, turning to his dismayed chums.

VII. MAKING THE TRAMPS SQUIRM

"You come back here!" screamed Danny Grin desperately.

"Haven't time now," called one of the tramps jeeringly, while his companion laid the whip over the startled horse.

With such a start as the tramps had they might be able to drive a mile ere the running boys could overtake them.

Besides, both law and custom forbade six boys clad only in bathing trunks from running along the highway.

"You'll find the wagon a few miles from here!" jeered the tramp who held the reins. "We'll leave it when we're through with it. We——"

But further words could not be heard for the wagon had vanished from view at a turn in the road between the trees.

"We're in a bad pickle, now!" gasped Tom Reade.

But Dick, studying the lay of the land with swift glances, saw just one chance. If the tramps turned the horse in the right direction on gaining the highway——

Dick broke off his thoughts there.

"Tom, you and Dave pursue a little way and travel like lightning," ordered young Prescott. "The rest of you pick up stones! Fast! Come along now."

On reaching the highway the driver was forced to make a little turn in order to cross the bridge, in case he decided to travel in the direction that the boys had been going. So Dick dashed ahead, hoping to profit by the one chance he saw.

Just as luck would have it, the tramps turned in the right direction. The horse, galloping fast under the lash, struck his forefeet on the bridge.

Whack! clatter! plug! Four high school boys, all of them baseball players and proud of their straight throwing, sent a small shower of rocks whizzing through the air.

These struck the bridge planks well ahead of the horse.

"Stop—or the next ones will hit you!" shouted young Prescott.

Just by way of suggestion he threw one stone that flew by within a foot of the nearer tramp's head. Holmes duplicated the throw.

"Stop that!" yelled one of the tramps, but he brought the horse to a standstill.

"Don't you throw any more stones!" yelled the tramp, as he saw the four ball players poised ready for more work in that line.

"Then hold the horse where he is until we come and take him," ordered Dick.

"We won't, and don't you throw any more stones," ordered the tramp. "Jerry, turn your pistol loose on the young cubs if they throw another stone. Giddap!"

"That's a bluff. You haven't any pistol," Dick called to the tramps coolly. "Just start that horse, and we'll knock both your heads off with stones. We know how to throw 'em."

Splash! Greg Holmes had taken to the narrow river. Now he was striking out lustily for the other side. In case the horse was started Holmes would be there, with a handful of stones with which to bombard the fugitives in passing.

"You fellers quit throwing stones, or you're going to get hurt!"

But the pause had accomplished the very thing for which Dick had waited.

"Throw another stone," repeated the tramp, "and you'll get——"

"Oh, tell it to the Senate!" broke in Tom Reade, climbing into the wagon and seizing the speaker. Dave, who had crept up with him, had gripped the other tramp by the collar.

Both tramps were thrown from the seat. Ere they could recover from their astonishment, Reade and Darrin had leaped down upon their tormentors.

"In with them!" ordered Dick.

Two splashes, occurring almost in the same second, testified to the tackling skill that Reade and Darrin had acquired on the gridiron.

Dick and his friends stood by to rescue the tramps, in case either of them could not swim.

Both could, however, and struck out for the shore, abusing the boys roundly as they swam.

Dave had seized the horse's bridle, and was now turning the animal about. Tom walked on the other side of the wagon.

"Look out, Greg!" called Dick suddenly, as the tramps, gaining the opposite shore, made a sudden rush at Holmes, who stood alone.

"I can take care of myself!" chuckled Greg gleefully, as dodging backward, he poised his right hand to throw a stone. "Look out, friends, unless you want to get hurt!"

Both tramps halted in a good deal of uncertainty. They wanted to thrash this high school boy, but they didn't like the risk of having their heads hurt by flying stones.

Two splashes on the other side of the river heralded the fact that Dan and Harry had started to Greg's aid. The instant they saw this, both men turned away from Greg, making a dash for the highway.

Laughing, young Holmes followed them up with all the missiles he had left. Not one dropped further than three feet from the flying heels of the fugitives, yet not one struck either of the tramps or was meant to do so.

"Come across, you three fellows," laughed young Prescott, when the enemy had vanished in flight. You've all earned your breakfast now, and you shall have it."

"As for me," spoke Tom from the wagon, as he drove into the forest path, "I'm strong for putting on my clothes before I sit down to dally with food."

Reade did not wait until he had driven the wagon where he and his friends could dress away from the view of people on the road.

"The cast-iron cheek of those scoundrels!" vented Dave Darrin indignantly.

"I rather think we are their debtors," smiled Dick quietly, as he drew his shirt over his head.

"You do!" demanded Darry incredulously.

"Yes; just think of all the zest they've put into our morning, and they didn't harm us, either."

"But just think of what it would have been like if we hadn't stopped 'em!" gasped Danny Grin solemnly. "We couldn't have chased 'em. It wouldn't have been decent for us to go along the road, making four miles to every five covered by the horse. No, sir! We'd have had to remain hidden in the forest until we could signal some farmer to send to our folks for clothes to put on. Wouldn't it have been great, staying in the woods two or three days, with nothing to eat, waiting for the proper clothing to enable us to go out into the world again!"

"It was a mean trick!" cried Darry hotly; and then he began to laugh as the ridiculous features of the situation appealed to him.

"But nothing serious happened," laughed Dick, "so we owe that pair of tramps for a pleasant touch to the morning's sport."

"I wonder how many years since either of them has had a bath, until this morning," grinned Reade, as he began to lace his shoes.

As Reade was dressed first, Dick called to him: "Take the horse out of the shafts, Tom, and let him feed in comfort."

"You may," laughed Reade. "As for me, I've flirted with my breakfast so long this morning, and have taken so many chances of not having any, that now I'm going to make sure of that first of all."

So Dick himself attended to the horse. Dan was already gathering firewood, which Dave piled into the stove in the wagon.

Soon water was boiling, coffee was being ground, tins opened, and a general air of comfort and good fellowship prevailed in that forest.

"We'll have to give you the palm for being a good trainer, Dick," declared Tom, taking a bite out of a sandwich and following it with a sip of coffee, "but you have one short-coming. You're no fortune teller. So, as you can't foretell the future, I vote that, after this, we breakfast in the morning and swim later in the day. It would affect my heart in time, if we had to battle every morning for our breakfast in this fashion."

"I can't get over the impudence of those tramps," muttered Darry, as he set his coffee cup down. "They couldn't hope to get away with the horse and wagon and sell them in these days of the rural telephone. They couldn't use our clothing for themselves. And yet they stole all we had in order to get hold of our food. At that, they didn't care what became of us, or how long we had to travel about in these woods without food or clothing."

"The tramps must be optimists," laughed Prescott. "Probably they had an abiding faith that all would turn out well with us, and so proposed to help themselves to what they needed."

"I wonder whether they'll fool with our outfit again," pondered Tom grimly, "if they come across it in our absence."

"I don't know," said Dick gravely. "As you've already reminded me, I am no foreteller of the future."

VIII. WHEN THE PEDDLER WAS "FRISKED"

It was a hot and dusty road that lay before them when they again took up their march that day.

Yet Dick Prescott insisted that, despite the late start, they must count upon covering twenty miles for that second day.

At night they halted on the edge of woods so far from the nearest farm house that Prescott did not consider it necessary to hunt up the owner and ask permission.

"Now, we'll have to see if we can find water here," Dick proposed. "Let's scatter, and the fellow who finds drinkable water must let out a yell to inform the others."

"I'll save you some trouble," Reade offered. "You fellows needn't hunt water at all. Give me the buckets and I'll go and get it."

"Have you been in this part of the country before?" asked Dick.

"No; and I don't need to have been here before in order to know that this ground is full of water," replied Reade, who was full of practical knowledge of that sort. "If I were a civil engineer, out with a field party, I'd mark this section 'water' on the map. Look at the ground here under the trees. It's as moist as can be."

Tom departed, but barely two minutes had elapsed when he was back with two pailfuls of water as clear as crystal.

"It's nearly as cold as ice water," Tom announced. "There's a bully big spring just a few steps back in the woods."

"Then I'm going to use some of this to wash up," Darrin declared. "I'll go with you on the next trip, Tom, and help carry the water."

"You'd better wait until we get the tent up before we wash," suggested Prescott. "Then you'll need it more."

Quick work was made of the encamping. Dan and Greg, from the wagon, passed down the tent itself, the floor boards and joists, the cots and bedding and some of the food supplies.

Then all hands quickly put up the tent. Reade and Hazelton had the flooring down in a jiffy. Dan and Greg put up the cots, while Dick and Dave set up the folding camp table and started the fire in the stove with a bundle of fagots brought in by Hazelton.

"Now, get busy with the wash-up," Dick called.

Within thirty minutes after halting, supper was on the table.

"How far from a swimming place this time?" Tom asked.

"Three miles, if I've studied the map right," replied Prescott, taking the road map from his pocket and passing it over.

"To-morrow," said Dave, "some of us will swim in plain sight of the outfit all the time."

"Do you think you can hike three miles and swim before breakfast in the morning?" asked Dick.

"The way I feel now," said Tom, pushing his campstool back from the table, "I shan't need anything to eat to-morrow."

"You must feel ill, then," declared Danny Grin.

"No; I feel just filed up enough to last for two or three days," sighed Reade contentedly.

Harry and Greg were a bit footsore, but the other boys claimed to feel all right.

"Do any of you feel like taking an evening walk?" asked Dick with a smile.

"I do," Darrin declared promptly.

"Not I," replied Tom. "At least not so soon after supper."

"Shall we try the walk?" Dick asked Darrin.

"I'm ready," Dave agreed. "Come along, then." Though it was dark, the two boys decided not to take a lantern with them.

"We don't need one on a public highway," said Dick as they plunged off down the dark road.

"How far shall we go?" Darrin asked.

"I think two miles away from camp and two miles back, ought to be far enough," Dick replied.

"If we feel like going farther, we can tackle it when the time comes," Darrin answered. "But how shall we judge the distance?"

"We'll walk briskly for thirty-five to thirty-eight minutes," Prescott suggested. "Then we'll turn back. While we're out we may get some idea of whether there's a swimming place nearer than three miles from camp."

Neither felt in the least footsore. Indeed, these two hardy high school boys thoroughly enjoyed their tramp in this cooler part of the twenty-four hours.

"I wish we could live outdoors all the time," murmured Darrin, as he filled his lungs with the fine night air.

"A lot of folks have felt that way," smiled Dick. "The idea is all right, too, only the work of the civilized world couldn't be carried on by a lot of tramps without homes or places of business."

"I've heard, or read," Darry went on, "that a tramp, after one season on the road, is rarely ever reclaimed to useful work. I think I can understand something of the fascination of the life."

"I can't see any fascination about being a tramp," Prescott replied judicially. "First of all, he becomes a vagabond, who prefers idleness to work. Then, too, he becomes dirty, and I can't see any charm in a life that is divorced from baths. From mere idleness the tramp soon finds that petty thieving is an easy way to get along. If I were going to be a thief at all, I'd want to be an efficient one. No stealing of wash from a clothes-line, or of pies from a housekeeper's pantry, when there are millions to be stolen in the business world."

"Now, you're laughing at me," uttered Dave.

"No; I'm not."

"But you wouldn't steal money if you had millions right under your hand where you could get away with the stuff," protested Darry.

"I wouldn't," Dick agreed promptly. "I wouldn't steal anything. Yet it's no worse, morally, to steal a million dollars from a great bank than it is to steal a suit of clothes from a house whose occupants are absent. All theft is theft. There are no degrees of theft. The small boy who would steal a nickel or a dime from his mother would steal a million dollars from a stranger if he had the chance and the nerve to commit the crime. All tramps, sooner or later, become petty thieves. Thieving goes with the life of idleness and vagabondage."

"I don't know about that," argued Dave. "A lot of men become tramps just through hard luck. I don't believe all of them steal, even small stuff."

"I believe they do, if they remain tramps," Dick insisted. "No man is safe who will deliberately go through life without earning his way. The man who starts with becoming idle ends with becoming vicious. This doesn't apply to tramps alone. Any day's newspaper will furnish you with stories of the vicious doings of the idle sons of rich men. Unless a man has an object in life, and works directly toward it all the time, he is in danger."

"I'd hate to believe that every ragged tramp I meet is a criminal," Dave muttered.

"He is, if he remains a tramp long enough," Dick declared with emphasis. "Take the tramps we met this morning. Look at all the trouble they were taking to rob us of food for a meal or two."

"There may have been an element of mischief in what they did," Dave hinted. "They may have done it just as a lark."

"They were thieves by instinct," Dick insisted. "They would have stolen anything that they could get away with safely. Hello! There's a light over there in the woods."

"Another camping party?" Dave wondered.

"Tramps, more likely. Suppose we speak low and advance with caution until we know where we are and whom we're likely to meet."

In silence the high school boys drew nearer. The light proved to come from a campfire that had been lighted some fifty feet from the road.

"Yes, you have!" insisted a harsh voice, as the boys drew nearer. "Don't try to fool with us. Turn over your money, or we'll make you wish you had!"

"Why, it's our tramps of this morning," whispered Dave.

"And look at that wagon—the peddler's!" Dick whispered in answer.

"Come, now, old man! Turn over your money, unless you want us to frisk you for it!" continued a voice.

"There are your honest tramps, Dave," Prescott whispered.

Then his eyes flashed, for, by the light of the campfire the lads saw the tramps seize frightened Reuben Hinman on either side and literally turn him upside down, the old man's head hitting the ground.

"Don't make any noise," whispered Prescott, "but we won't stand for that!"

"We surely won't!" Darry agreed with emphasis.

"Come on, now—soft-foot!"

As the tramps jostled Mr. Hinman, upside down and yelling with fright, a sack containing the peddler's money rolled from one of the peddler's trousers pockets.

"Shake him again! There'll be more than that coming!" jeered one of the tramps.

But just then they let go their hold of the old man, for Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin rushed in out of the darkness, dealing blows that sent the tramps swiftly to earth.

Yet the two high school boys were now doomed to pay the penalty of not having scouted a bit before rushing in.

For the two tramps were not the only ones of their kind at hand. Out of the shadows under the surrounding trees came a rush of feet, accompanied by hoarse yells.

Then, before they had had time fully to realize just what was happening, Prescott and Darrin found themselves suddenly in the midst of the worst fight they had ever seen in their lives.

"Beat 'em up!" yelled the man whom Dick had knocked down. "I know these young fellers! They put up a bad time for us this morning. Beat 'em up and make a good job of it, too."

There was no use whatever in contending with such odds. Yet Dick and Dave fought with all their might, only to be borne to the ground, where they received severe punishment.

IX. DICK IMITATES A TAME INDIAN

"Hello! hello!" yelled Tom Reade, pacing up and down the road with his lantern, holding his watch in the other hand. "Oh, Dick! Dave!"

But up the road there sounded no answer. Looking utterly worried, Reade came back into camp.

"I don't like the looks of this, fellows," he announced. "There's something wrong. Something has happened to one or both of the fellows. They left here before eight o'clock, and now it's twenty minutes of eleven. If everything had been all right, they'd have been back here by half-past nine o'clock at the latest."

"Suppose we haul down the tent, pack the outfit and move on down the road, looking for some trace of them," proposed Greg.

"No; that would delay the start too much," Tom replied, with a shake of his head. "Whoever goes out to hunt for Dick and Dave must move fast and not be tied to a horse and wagon. I'm going, for one. Who will go with me?"

"I will," promptly answered Dan, Harry and Greg, all in one breath.

"We'll have to leave one fellow to watch the camp," Reade answered, with a shake of his head. "Hazy, I'm afraid the lot will have to fall to you."

"I'd rather go with you," Hazelton declared.

"Of course you would," Tom assented. "But at least one good man must stay here and look after our outfit. So you stay, Harry, and Dan and Greg will go with me."

"Going to take the lantern?" asked Greg, jumping up.

"Yes," Tom nodded, "but we won't light it unless we need it. Just for finding our footing at some dark part of the road the electric flash light will do."

Full of anxiety the trio set out on their search.

But in the meantime, what of Dick and Dave?

Theirs had been a busy evening. After the first rough pummeling, which left them breathless and sore, the tramp who had directed the rough work turned to his friends of the road.

"These young gents have furnished us with some exercise," he grinned wickedly. "Now, suppose we make 'em supply us with a little amusement?"

"It's risky, close to the road," returned one of the tramps who had been back in the shadows. "We don't know when someone will come along and butt in on our sport."

"Two of our crowd can go out as scouts," replied the ringleader.

"They'd better," nodded the adviser, "and even then we'd better take the cart, the old man and these young gents further back into the woods."

Neither Dick nor Dave had said anything so far, for they were too sore, and too much exhausted.

At the leader's command two men went down to the road, to watch in both directions.

"Give the whistle—you know the one—if anyone comes along that's likely to spoil the fun," was the ringleader's order.

Reuben Hinman had been deprived of the last dollar in money that he had with him. Quaking and subdued, the old man obeyed the order to mount his cart and drive the rig farther into the woods.

"Take the young gents along, and see that they behave themselves," directed the ringleader.

Dick and Dave did not yet feel in condition to offer any resistance or defiance. Even with the two "scouts" out on the road there were still six of the tramps left to take care of them.

The odds looked too heavy for another fight it when the last one had been so unsuccessful.

As Dick and Dave got to their feet and started along, followed and watched by the tramps, Dick tottered closer to his companion, managing to whisper:

"We've got to gain time, Dave. Pretend to be weak—crippled—badly hurt."

That was all. Prescott fell away again without his whisper having been detected by their captors.

Before quitting the spot near the road the ringleader had scattered the campfire so effectually that the embers would soon die out.

A full eighth of a mile back from the road the order was given to Hinman to rein in his horse.

"We're far enough from the road, now, so that we ain't likely to be spotted," said the boss tramp. "Now, let's see what these young gents can do to amuse us. Maybe they know how to sing and dance."

But Dick had sunk wearily to the ground, forcing his breath to come in rapid gasps.

"Get up there, younker," ordered the boss tramp.

"You've hurt me," moaned Dick, speaking the truth, though trying to convey a stronger impression than the facts would warrant.

"And we may hurt you more if you don't get cheerful and help make the evening pass pleasantly," sneered the boss tramp harshly.

"Wait till I—get so—I can get my breath—easier," begged Dick pantingly.

The boss turned to Darrin.

"Young fellow, wot can you do in the entertaining line?" demanded the fellow leeringly.

"Nothing," Dave retorted sulkily. "After you've kicked a fellow so that he's so sore he can scarcely move, do you expect him to do a vaudeville turn right away?"

"Get 'em on their feet," ordered the boss tramp. "We'll show 'em a few things!"

But Dick protested dolefully, sinking back to the ground as soon as the tramp who had hold of him showed a little compassion by letting go of his arm.

"Give me time, I tell you," Dick insisted in a weak voice. "Don't try to kill us, on top of such a thrashing as you gave us."

"Let go of me," urged Darry still speaking sulkily. "If you want anything better than a sob song you'll have to give me time to get my breath back."

As though satisfied that they could get no sport out of the high school boys for the present, the tramps allowed them to lie on the ground, breathing fitfully and groaning.

Dick was watching his chance to get up and bolt, depending upon his speed as a football player to take him out of this dangerous company. Darrin was equally watchful—but so were the tramps. Plainly the latter did not intend to let their prey get away from them easily.

As for Reuben Hinman, obeying a command, the peddler had alighted from his wagon and now sat with his back against a tree. He had no thought of trying to get away, well knowing that his aged legs would not carry him far in a dash for freedom. The peddler's wearied horse stood and dozed between the shafts.

"It's about time for you younkers to be doing something," urged the boss tramp, after some minutes had slipped away.

"If you'll find the strength for me to stand up," urged Dick, "maybe I can dance, or do something."

"Did we muss you up as much as that?" demanded the boss tramp. "It serves you right, then. You shouldn't have meddled in our pastimes. Maybe it was all right for you fellers to get your horse and wagon back this morning, but you shouldn't have meddled to-night."

"I guess maybe that's right," nodded Darrin sulkily, "but you went in too strong in getting even. You had no call to cripple us for life."

"Oh, I guess it ain't as bad as that," muttered the boss tramp, though there was uneasiness in his voice.

So the tramps sat and smoked about a fire that one of their number had lighted. Another fifteen minutes went by.

"Come, it's time for you fellers to get busy, and give us something—songs, dances, comic recitations, or something like that. That's what we brought you here for," declared the boss, rising and prodding Darrin with one foot.

But Dave gave forth no sign. His eyes were half open, yet he appeared to see nothing.

"Here, what have you been doing to my friend?" demanded Dick, crawling as if feebly over to where Darry lay. "Great Scott! You haven't injured him, have you?"

Dick acted his part as well as Dave did, but the boss tramp was not inclined to be nervous.

"No," he retorted shortly. "We haven't done much to either of you young fellers not a quarter as much as we're going to do if you don't both of you quit your nonsense soon. Help 'em up, now."

Dick allowed himself to be lifted to his feet and supported in a standing position by one of the most powerful-looking of the tramps. Darrin, however, continued to act as if he were almost lifeless.

"Give him the water cure," ordered the boss tramp, in an undertone to one of his confederates.

Going to the peddler's wagon the one so directed took down a pail. He went off in the darkness, but soon came back with a pail of water. Slipping up slyly, he dashed the water full in Darry's face.

With a gasping cry of rage Dave Darrin started to spring to his feet. Then, remembering his part, he sank back again to the ground.

"Raise him," directed the boss tramp. "He'll find his legs and stand on 'em. We are not going to let this show wait any longer!"

So Dave was roughly jerked to his feet. He swayed with pretended dizziness, next tottered to a tree, throwing his arms around it.

"You start something!" ordered the boss tramp of Prescott.

Feeling that now the chance might come for both of them to make a break for liberty, Dick answered, with a sheepish grin:

"If I can get wind enough I'll see if I can do an Indian war song and dance."

"Go ahead with it," ordered the boss. "It sounds good."

Once, three or four years ago, Dick had heard and seen such a war song and dance done at an Indian show in the summer time.

"I'll see if I can remember it," he replied.

Crooning in guttural tones, he started a swaying motion of his body. Gradually the unmelodious noise rose in volume. Brandishing his hands as though they contained weapons, he circled about the tree, gradually drawing nearer to Darrin.

"That song is mighty poor stuff," growled one of the tramps.

"Ready, Dave! Make a swift break for it!" whispered Prescott.

X. REUBEN HINMAN PROVES HIS METTLE

Uttering a loud whoop, Dick pushed Dave lightly.

At the same instant both young football players gathered for the spring, then started to speed away.

But they had had no chance to be quick enough, for some of the tramps had moved closer.

Both fugitives were seized, and now the battle was on again—two boys against overwhelming odds.

Right at the outset, however, a new note sounded.

"Go into it!" roared Tom Reade's voice. "Give 'em an old-fashioned high school drubbing."

Three more figures hurled themselves into the fray. And now, indeed, the battle raged. On the part of the high school boys there was no longer any thought of retreat, though it was still a matter of six men against five lads.

In the excitement of their friends' arrival, Dick and Dave were able to wrench themselves free.

Though those on the defense were boys, they were boys of good size, whose muscles had been hardened by regular training, as well as by grilling work on the football field.

Reade, in his first onset, hit one of the tramps such a blow that the fellow went to earth, where, though conscious, he preferred to remain for a while. Then it was five against five. But Dan soon got in a belt-line blow that put another tramp out of the fight.

From the road the two scouts ran up. When they saw, however, how the fight was going, they slunk off.

It was soon all but over. The boss tramp, however, armed with a club, crept up behind Prescott, aiming a savage blow at his head.

The blow would have landed, but for a new interruption.

With a cry that was more of a scream of alarm, old Reuben Hinman threw himself forward into the fray. Both his lean arms were wrapped around the tramp's legs.

Down came the tramp, just as Dick wheeled, falling heavily across Reuben Hinman, knocking the breath from the peddler.

Tom and Dave seized the boss tramp, as he tried to get up, hurling him back to the earth and sitting upon him.

"Let me up! Lemme go!" yelled the tramp.

"Keep cool," advised Tom. "You're likely to stay with us a while."

"Don't let him go," cried Prescott. "That wretch has all of Mr. Hinman's money in his pockets."

"He'll give it up, then," guessed Reade.

"Come back here, you men!" roared the boss tramp, finding that all his fellows had fled.

"Call 'em all you want," mocked Reade. "They won't come back. They're too wise for that."

Dick, having given the order for the holding of the one tramp who remained, now gave all his attention to Reuben Hinman.

"The poor old man must be rather badly hurt," Prescott declared. "I can't get him to talk. Did you fellows bring a lantern with you?"

The lantern was lit and brought forward.

"I don't know what the matter is with him," said Dick at last. "But that's all the more reason why we must get him where he can have attention. The village of Dunfield is four miles below here. We must get him there at once. And we'll march the hobo there, too, in the hope that the village has a lock-up."

"It hasn't," snarled the tramp.

"Oh, we wouldn't take your word on a vital point like that," jeered Darry.

"The first thing you'll do will be to give back this poor old man's money," Dick went on, eyeing the tramp.

"I haven't got it," came the prompt denial. "I turned it over to Joe and Bill, and they've got away with it."

"You're not going to like us a bit, my man," smiled Prescott. "We are not the kind of fellows to take your word for anything. We're going to see whether or not you have the money. We're going through your clothing for it. Poor old Mr. Hinman will need it for the care that I am afraid he is going to require. Search the fellow, Tom."

Greg now aided Dave in holding the vagabond. The tramp made such a commotion during the search that Dick and Greg added their help in holding him.

Out of a trousers' pocket Tom dragged the peddler's money sack. It was still tied.

"Let me have it," said Dick, and took it over by the campfire, where he untied the sack and peered into it.

"There's a roll of bills and at least ten, dollars in change in the sack," Dick announced, "so I think that none of the money has been taken."

"That's my money you've got," snarled the tramp.

"Tell that to the Senate!" Tom suggested.

Greg and Dan now aided Dick in lifting Mr. Hinman to the floor of his wagon, where they laid him on a pile of rags. Mr. Hinman was breathing, and his pulse could be distinctly felt.

"Dave, I guess you and I had better go along with the wagon," Dick suggested. "Now, see here, Tom, you and the other fellows go back to camp and act just as if we were all there. Start in the morning, as usual. You ought to be in Fenton by noon to-morrow. If Dave and I don't join you before that time, then you'll find us at Fenton."

"What are you going to do with the hobo?" Reade wanted to know.

"Roll him over on his face and tie his hands. Then we'll hitch him to the back of Mr. Hinman's wagon, and I'll walk with him and see that he goes along without making trouble, while Dave drives."

At this moment Reade alone was occupied in sitting on the captive, Dave having risen when it was suggested that he go with Dick to Dunfield.

"Here—quick!" yelled Reade, as the boss tramp gave a sudden heave.

But like a flash the hobo sprang up and darted off through the darkness. Tom, Dave and Dan started in swift pursuit, but the tramp soon doubled on his pursuers in the darkness and got away.

"Let him go," counseled Dick. "We've enough else to occupy our attention."

So Greg ran out to pass the word to the pursuers to discontinue the chase. Tom, when he returned, was very angry.

"You'd no business to leave the fellow like that, Darry," he growled, "and I was a big fool not to be better on my guard. That fellow will make trouble for us yet—see if he doesn't."

"There was no use in chasing him any further, if he eluded you in the darkness," Dick remarked. "Dave, you get up on the wagon beside Mr. Hinman. I'll drive his horse."

Only as far as the road did Tom Reade, Dan and Greg accompany them, going ahead with the lantern to show the way.

"Now, you know the plan, Tom," Dick called quietly. "Fenton—at noon to-morrow."

"Good luck to you two!" called Reade. "And keep your eyes open for trouble."

"It will be someone else's trouble, if we meet any," laughed Darrin gayly.

"I wonder how it was that Tom and the other fellows didn't run into one of the scouts that the tramps had out," said Dick, after they had driven a short distance.

"Tom told me that they did catch a glimpse of a scout prowling by the road side, so they went around him," Darrin replied. "They slipped past the fellow without his seeing them."

As Dick held the reins he also eyed the dark road closely as they went along. He was not blind to the fact that the tramps might reassemble and rush the wagon, for these vagabonds would want both the peddler's money and what they would consider suitable revenge on the high school boys, for their part in the night's doings.

However, the village of Dunfield was reached without further adventure. Dave woke up the head of a family living in one of the cottages, and from him learned where to find the local physician. Then Dick drove to the medical man's house.

Dr. Haynes came downstairs at the first ring of the door bell, helping the boys to bring the still unconscious peddler inside.

There, under a strong light, with the peddler stretched on an operating table, the physician looked Reuben Hinman over.

"I can't find evidence of any bones being broken," said the physician. "It's my opinion that shock and exhaustion have done their work. Reuben is a very hard-working old man."

"Then you know him?" Dick asked.

"Everyone in this part of the country knows Reuben," replied the doctor. "He's one of our characters."

"He must have a hard life of it, and make rather a poor living," Prescott suggested.

"I guess he would make a good enough living, if——" began the physician, then checked himself.

"Are you going to bring the man to consciousness, doctor?" asked Dave.

"Yes; after I get a few things ready. I don't believe we'll have much trouble with him, though we'll have to get Reuben home and make him rest for a few days."

"Where does he live?" Dick inquired.

"In Fenton. Reuben has a queer little old home of his own there."

"Has he a wife?" Dick asked.

"She died fifteen years ago."

"Are there any children to look after Mr. Hinman?" Darry asked.

"He has children, but—well, they don't live with him," replied Dr. Haynes, as though not caring to discuss the subject.

Then the physician went to work over the peddler, who presently opened his eyes.

"Drink some of this," ordered the physician. "Now, you begin to feel better, don't you, Reuben?"

"Yes; and I've got to get up right away and see what I can do about getting back my money," cried the peddler.

"Don't try to get up just yet," ordered Dr. Haynes.

"If your money is worrying you, Mr. Hinman, I have it," Dick broke in, showing the sack.

A cry of joy escaped the peddler. He sank back, murmuring:

"You're good boys! I knew you were good boys!"

"You take the money, Doctor, if you please, and turn it over to Mr. Hinman when he's able to count it," urged Prescott, handing the sack to their host.

"Now, Mr. Hinman will want to sleep a little while, so we'll go outside and chat, if you've nothing pressing to do," suggested the physician.

Dick and Dave thought they might learn more about the odd peddler, but Reuben Hinman's affairs was one subject that the physician did not seem inclined to talk about.

"Now, if you young men want to take Reuben over to Fenton," said Dr. Haynes, at last, "I'll telephone Dr. Warren from here, and he'll be expecting you. It'll take you about two hours to get over to Fenton at the gait that old Reuben's horse travels."

This time a mattress was placed on top of the pile of rags, and the peddler was made as comfortable as possible for the trip.

"Remember, Reuben, you've got to stay in the house and take care of yourself for three or four days," was Dr. Haynes' parting injunction.

"I can't spare the time from my business," groaned the old man.

"You'll have to, this time, Reuben, as the means of being ready to do more business. So be good about it. You have two fine lads taking care of you to-night."

"I know that, Doctor."

It was five o'clock in the morning when Dick and Dave drove into the main street of Fenton. Yet they found an automobile in the road, and Dr. Warren, a very young man, hailed them.

"Drive right along, boys. I'll show you the way to the house," called the Fenton physician.

It was a very small and very plain little house of five rooms into which Reuben was carried, but it was a very neatly kept little house.

Reuben Hinman was put to bed and made as comfortable as possible.

"Are there any relatives to take care of this man?" Dick asked.

"There are relatives," replied Dr. Warren, with an odd smile, "but I guess we won't ask any of them to care for Reuben. There are a couple of good women among the neighbors, and I'll call them to come over here soon."

It was after six in the morning when Dr. Warren left the peddler, with two motherly looking women to take care of him.

Dr. Warren, after some conversation with the boys, returned to his home.

"As this is where we're going to meet Tom and the other fellows," said Dick, "I propose that we see if we can find a restaurant and have something to eat. Then we'll try to hire a couple of beds and leave a call for noon. I'm both hungry and fagged out."

They found the restaurant without difficulty, and also succeeded in hiring two cots in an upstairs room over the restaurant.

"Reuben Hinman is becoming a good deal of a puzzle to me," murmured Dave Darrin, as the chums ate their breakfast.

"He's almost a man of mystery," agreed Dick, "though not quite, except to us. I imagine that these Fenton people know all about our peddler friend."

"Both doctors seemed to know a lot about the old man," remarked Dave thoughtfully. "Yet it was strange; neither of them would really tell us anything definite about Mr. Hinman."

"If doctors told all they know about people." smiled Dick, "I believe that life would become exciting for a while, but before long there would be fewer doctors in the world than there are now."

At just twelve o'clock Dick and Dave were called. They sprang up, somewhat drowsy, yet on the whole greatly refreshed. After washing they dressed and went forth in search of their camp outfit and friends.

XI. TOM IDEALIZES WORKING CLOTHES

After the reunion at Fenton the high school boys enjoyed many days of "hiking" and of all-around good times, yet nothing happened in that interval that requires especial chronicling.

Nor in that time did Dick & Co. hear any more of Reuben Hinman, as they were now some distance from Fenton.

"We'll make Ashbury to-night," Dick announced one morning. "We'll go about two miles past the town, halt there for two or three days' rest, and then—back to good old Gridley for ours."

"Gridley's all right. Fine old town," Tom declared. "But as for me, I wish we didn't have to go back there for another two months, instead of feeling that we have to be there in a fortnight from now."

"This has been a great hike," Dick agreed, "and a fortnight of life of a kind that has had nothing but joy in it. Yet we've the years ahead to think of, haven't we?"

"What has that got to do with going back to Gridley?" demanded Danny Grin.

"Well, what are we going to the high school for?" questioned Dick Prescott.

"I'm going because the folks send me," Dan declared. "Can't help myself."

"Don't you want to get anywhere in life?"

"I suppose I do," Dalzell assented half dubiously.

"Danny boy, I'm ashamed of you," Dick exclaimed, though his eyes were smiling. "Are you content, Dan, to grow up and use your fine muscles in performing the duties of a day laborer?"

"Not exactly," Dan answered.

"You'd rather be president of a big railroad company?"

"Yes, if I had to choose between the two jobs."

"Then perhaps you can get a glimmering of why you're in high school," Dick went on. "When you compare the railway president and the laborer, the difference between them lies a good deal in the difference in their natural abilities. Yet a lot depends, too, upon the difference in their training. You don't find many college graduates wielding the pick and shovel for a living, nor many high school graduates doing so, either. By the way, Dan, what are you going to do in life?"

Dalzell shook his head.

"Then within the next year you had better go after the problem and make your decision hard and fast. Fasten your gaze on something in life that you want, and then don't stop traveling until you get it, and it's all yours! A boy of seventeen, without an idea of what he intends to do in life has already turned down the lane that leads to the junk heap. Get out of that road, Danny!"

"What are you going to do in life yourself?" challenged Danny Grin.

"I'm going to West Point if there's any possible chance of my winning the nomination from our home district. There's a vacancy to be competed for next spring."

"Some smarter boy may win it away from you," Danny Grin retorted.

"He'll have to hustle, then," Dick rejoined, his eyes flashing.

"But suppose you do lose the nomination and can't go to West Point—what will you do then?"

"I have plans, in case I can't get to West Point," Prescott answered quietly. "However, as yet I won't admit the defeat of my West Point ambition."

"I'd try for West Point myself, if it weren't for Dick being in the way," Greg declared. "But I never could get past Dick in an exam."

"If you want it, come on and try," begged Dick. "Our Congressman gives the nomination to the boy in the district who can stand up best under an exam. Go in and try for it, Greg! Work like a horse when high school opens. You might get it."

"And take it away from you?" blurted Holmes.

"If you can get it from me, you ought to do it, Holmesy. The best men are needed in every walk of life. I'll promise, in advance, not to be 'sore' if you can win it away from me."

"Yes! I'd try all winter," scoffed Greg, "and then in the end some sad-eyed fellow from a back-country village would bob up and win it away from us both."

"Let the sad-eyed fellow have it, if he is the better man," Dick agreed heartily. "But fear of defeat isn't going to hold me back. Don't let it stop you, either, Greg!"

"It's going to be Annapolis for mine—the United States Naval Academy and a commission in the United States Navy!" Darry declared, his eyes snapping.

"I'd rather like that, too," Danny Grin declared.

"Then go after it," urged Dick Prescott. "Get some real plan in your mind of what you're going to do in life, and then follow that plan, night and day, until you either win or drop from exhaustion."

"Wouldn't I be a funny-looking lamb in a midshipman's uniform?" queried Dalzell blinking fast.

"No funnier looking than any of the rest of us," Dick retorted. "Now, Tom isn't talking much, but we all know what he's going to do, for he has already been working at it. He has been studying surveying, for he means to make a great civil engineer of himself one of these days."

"And I'm going into the game with him," declared Hazelton.

"That's because you've always had Tom about to tell you what to do, and to keep you from butting your head into things in the dark," jeered Danny Grin. "Hazy, you're going to become an engineer just because you shiver at the thought of trying to do anything in life without having old Tommy Long-legs to advise you when to wash your face or come in out of the rain."

"Harry is a pretty bright surveyor already," Tom declared. "He has been keeping mum about it, but Harry can go out into the country with a transit and run up the field notes for a map about as handily as the next kid in his teens."

"I should think you'd like the Army or the Navy, Tom," mused Dalzell aloud.

"Nothing doing," Reade retorted. "I want to be one of the big and active men of the world, who do big things. I want to map out the wilderness. I want to dam the raging flood and drive the new railroad across the desert. I want to construct. I want to work day and night when the big deeds are to be done. That's why I wouldn't care for the Army or Navy; it's too idle a life."

"An idle life!" exclaimed Dick and Dave in the same breath.

"Yes," Tom went on dryly. "Did you ever see an Army or a Navy officer?"

"I've seen several of them," Dick replied, "and have talked with some of them."

"Same here," added Darrin.

"Did you see the officers in uniform?" Reade pressed.

"Yes, of course——" said Prescott.

"Their uniforms were nice and neat, weren't they?" Tom asked.

"Of course," Prescott answered.

"Then that was because your Army or Navy officers hadn't been doing any hard work that would ruffle the neatness of their uniforms," finished Tom triumphantly, "and there you are! I can dress up on Sundays or holidays, but on the work days, when I'm a civil engineer, I want to wear clothes that show that I'm not afraid to tackle the rough and hard things of life."

"Then you might join Dan in being a day laborer," teased Dick laughingly.

"Oh, no! I want to use my brain along with my muscles, and that's why I'm going to be a civil engineer."

"Army a Navy officers may have had an easy time of it once," Dave went on warmly, but times have changed. Our fighting men, to-day, are obliged to hustle all the time to keep up with the march and progress of science. I asked an Army officer, once, what he did in his spare time. He looked at me rather queerly, then replied, 'I sleep.'"

"He was lazy as well as offensively neat, then," laughed Tom. "As for me, I enjoy my old clothes, and that is one of the reasons why I'm having so much fun out of this trip. I don't have to dress up!"

"You'd feel first rate if you could be dressed up for a few hours, go into a hotel dining room, have a good meal and then slip into a ballroom for a dance," laughed Prescott.

"Bosh!" flared Tom. "I'm no dandy, and all I want is to be a man."

"How do you stand, Harry?" grinned Dave Darrin. "Do you agree with Tom that dirt is the best stuff with which to decorate one's clothing?"

"I never said that," broke in Tom hotly. "I'm as ready for a bath and clean clothing as any of you. I like to wear old clothes—not soiled ones!"

"If anyone happens to overhear us talking," laughed Hazy, "he'll think that we're all planning to take up prize fighting as our work in life."

"I don't like to hear the officers of the Army and Navy scoffed at as a lot of idling, time-wasting dandies," Darry asserted.

"And I don't like to be accused of liking dirt on my clothes, just because I am going to be a civil engineer," Tom explained in a milder voice.

An ideal bit of green forest, at the edge of a limpid lake, appealed to Dick & Co. as the noon stopping place.

"I've a good mind to fish," remarked Danny Grin.

"Go ahead, if you want to," Dick assented, "but we've got a lot of fresh meat that we simply must cook this noon, for it may not keep until night."

"It would take you an hour or more, even though the fish bit readily, to catch enough fish to feed this little multitude," Tom remarked.

"I don't want to wait that long for my meal to-day."

"I don't believe I want to wait, either," Dalzell agreed, and gave up the idea of fishing.

Luncheon went on in record time that morning. It was not later than half-past eleven o'clock when they sat down to the meal, and but a few minutes past noon when the dishes were stacked up, ready to be washed.

"Whizz-zz!" whistled Dave, as the sounds made by a swiftly driven automobile reached their ears. "Someone is hurrying to get his noon meal. Just hear that old spurt wagon throb!"

The boys sat some hundred feet in from the highway. The automobile did not interest them much until——

Bang!

Then the car stopped with a scraping sound.

"Gracious!" exclaimed Danny Grin, jumping up at the sound of the explosion. Then he sat down once more, looking sheepish.

"Give up the Annapolis bee, Danny boy," laughed Tom. "That was nothing but a tire blowing out. If you got into the Navy, and a fourteen-inch gun went off when you weren't expecting it, you'd be half way to the planet Neptune before your comrades could call you back."

"How easily we make light of other people's troubles," mused Prescott.

"What makes you say that?" asked Darrin.

"Why, for instance, that party down in the road has been stopped by a blown-out tire. Probably they were in a hurry to get somewhere, too. Now, they're delayed perhaps a half an hour, but it doesn't give us a flicker of concern."

"It interests me, anyway," Reade announced, rising. "Anything in the mechanical line does. It may even be that the man driving that car doesn't know just how to put on a new tire. I'm going to saunter down and see."

Five members of Dick & Co. didn't take the trouble even to glance keenly at the halted car.

Tom took a dozen steps, then suddenly shouted back:

"Fellows, your indifference will vanish, now. Look who's here!"

XII. TROUBLE WITH THE RAH-RAH-RAHS

A broad-shouldered man, his back to Dick & Co., was assisting a middle-aged woman to alight from the car.

As Tom's voice reached their ears five girls exclaimed in delight, then began to wave their hands in most friendly fashion.

Dick & Co. were on the run by this time, for the broad-shouldered man was Dr. Bentley, the woman Mrs. Bentley, and the five girls Laura Bentley, Belle Meade, Susie Sharp, Clara Marshall and Anita Murray.

"Hm! Young men, I'm beginning to feel annoyed," remarked Dr. Bentley with pretended severity, though he shook hands pleasantly enough with the boys. "Whenever Mrs. Bentley and I take some of Laura's friends for a spin anywhere you appear to have our route and you bob up on the map."

"Then we'll withdraw, sir, at once," Dick suggested.

"No, you won't," retorted the doctor. "Young Reade is engaged, on the spot, to help me fit on a new tire. Perhaps Hazelton will help. The rest of you may disappear, and take the ladies with you, if you will. Yet, really, it looks as though you learn our route and follow it."

"That isn't fair, doctor," Dave rejoined. "We're on foot, and have been away from Gridley for something over a fortnight. It is you who must have been following us, with that seven-passenger automobile of yours. And may I remind you, sir, that you wouldn't have bursted the tire if you hadn't been driving at something under a hundred and eighty miles an hour in the effort to overtake us?"

"I'm beaten", laughed Dr. Bentley. "I take it all back. I agree that the appearances are all against me. But I didn't know that you young scions of Gridley were on the road. I was driving fast in order to bring the ladies to Ashbury in time for luncheon. And now, they won't get it."

"Small loss to them, and great gain to us," smiled Dick. "We have provisions enough in our wagon to offer all the luncheon that your party can possibly care to eat."

"No, no! We've encroached upon your hospitality too often in the past," replied Dr. Bentley, with a shake of his head. "We won't be delayed long. Just how long, Reade, do you think it is going to take us to fit on the new tire?"

"The car ought to be ready to run again in fifteen minutes," Tom answered truthfully.

"And we can make Ashbury in another fifteen minutes," Laura's father continued. "So we won't rob the pantry of Dick & Co. to-day."

Dick and three of his chums conducted Mrs. Bentley and the five high school girls in under the trees. Of course the girls wanted to see the outfit, though it was now packed on the wagon.

"Are you going far, this trip?" Dick inquired.

"Ashbury will be the end of our run," Mrs. Bentley answered.

"And of ours, too," Dick nodded. "We agreed to that this morning."

"But we are to stay at Ashbury two or three days," Laura added. "Dad has been making arrangements for us at the hotel there, and he calls it a fine summer place. We know some people who are stopping there now, so we are going to have a pleasant little time of it, I expect. When do you reach Ashbury, Dick?"

"To-night," Prescott answered.

"Mother," Laura went on, "aren't you going to invite the boys to luncheon at the hotel tomorrow?"

"I shall be delighted to do so, if they will accept," replied Mrs. Bentley smiling.

"We'd cause a sensation in the hotel, wouldn't we?" laughed Danny Grin, looking down ruefully at his dusty "hike clothes."

"You have other clothing with you, haven't you?" asked Susie Sharp.

"Nothing better than what we're wearing now," Greg replied.

"Come, just the same, anyway," urged Mrs. Bentley. "You boys are on a rough trip, and you're not expected to have large wardrobes with you. So I shall expect you all at the Ashbury Terraces by noon to-morrow."

"And there's to be a dance there to-morrow night," Belle continued, a trifle mischievously. "Of course, you will come to the dance."

"Yes—if you invite us!" Dick took up the challenge thus unexpectedly.

"Then you're surely invited," laughed Susie Sharp. "Aren't they, Mrs. Bentley?"

"Yes; if they promise to come," agreed the doctor's wife. "And, perhaps, they would rather dine than lunch with us, and then they can attend the dance after dinner."

"That would be much better, thank you," Dick replied gratefully.

But the other fellows eyed him askance, in wondering amazement. What on earth could Dick mean by accepting for himself and chums a dinner and dance invitation when they had nothing to wear save their road-worn and travel-stained hiking clothes?

"Dick is getting careless—making such an engagement for us for to-morrow evening," Tom confided to Hazelton, when the news was related to him.

"Well, you won't need to mind, anyway," laughed Harry gleefully. "You, of all fellows, can't kick, Tom, after the way you've been glorifying life in one's working clothes."

Dr. Bentley was delighted to have such capable young men as Reade and Hazelton on hand to put on the new tire, for the man of medicine, though a clever surgeon in some lines, was but little of a machinist. He worked with finer tools than those that his repair box carried.

Twenty minutes later the new tire was on and had been pumped up.

"All ready!" sang out Tom.

"You might have dallied longer on that job," Dick answered reproachfully.

"Are you anxious to keep us hungry girls away from our luncheon that much longer?" cried Susie Sharp.

"Well, whose fault is it that you are not having your luncheon, here and now?" smiled Prescott. "You didn't like our cooking, though."

"Don't I?" chirped Miss Sharp. "If it weren't for making you vainer than you are, Dick Prescott, I'd tell you that the trout luncheon you gave us at the second lake still lingers in our memories."

Regretfully, the boys escorted the high school girls down to the road, assisting them and Mrs. Bentley into the car.

"To-morrow evening, then!" called Mrs. Bentley. "Be at the hotel by half-past five o'clock, won't you?"

"Without fail," Dick smiled back, "unless circumstances beyond our control prevent us."

Good-byes were eagerly called, Dr. Bentley warmly expressing his thanks to Reade and Hazelton for their assistance. Then, with a warning honk, the big car started away.

Then all hands turned upon Dick. "Prescott, why on earth did you let us in for a dinner and dance to-morrow night?" quivered Greg.

"Look at us—the only outside clothes we have with us!" exploded Danny Grin.

"We're frights!" chimed in Dave.

"We'll disgrace the girls," blurted Tom, "unless in the meantime we can find some real tramps with whom to trade clothes."

"We'll feel ashamed enough to drop, when we get among civilized folks," moaned Harry.

"This is a fine chance to prove or disprove Tom's theory that a fellow ought to feel most at home in his old working clothes," chuckled Dick.

"Was that why you did it—accepted that dinner and dance invitation?" gasped Dave.

"Partly," laughed Prescott.

"I won't go!" flared Reade, his face showing red under its heavy coat of tan.

"Oh, yes, you will," Dick insisted, "or else admit that you perjured yourself when you idealized your working duds this morning."

"And are you really going to-morrow night?" Greg insisted.

"I certainly am," young Prescott affirmed.

That was too much of a poser for the other members of Dick & Co. Nothing more was said on the subject, though the five boys did considerable thinking.

Toward five o'clock they came in sight of Ashbury. A few minutes later they had reached a point where the highway turned into one of the streets of the town.

Here a uniformed bell-boy from the Ashbury Terraces Hotel approached them.

"Is Mr. Prescott in this party?" he inquired.

"That's my name," Dick answered.

"Then I am requested by Dr. Bentley to guide you to a camping place inside the Terraces' grounds," replied the bell-boy. "Dr. Bentley has arranged it with the manager."

This was a surprise, indeed, but Dick & Co. followed their guide, who turned in through a gate at some distance from the handsome summer hotel. Their guide led them to a grove on a broad terrace, from which the high school lads had an excellent view of one of the porches of the hotel.

"Look at the smartly dressed people over there!" groaned Greg, as soon as the bell-boy had left them. "Look at those girls, in their gowns of white lace! Look at the fellows over there, in flannels and white duck! Look at——"

"Shut up!" commanded Tom hoarsely. "Don't rub it in."

"Dick," suggested Darry, with some bitterness, "we'll feel like princes in our flannel shirts and khaki leggings, won't we?"

"I've an idea," offered Danny Grin. "By way of dressing up we can leave off our khaki leggings and give our trousers an extra brushing all around. We'll look quite respectable, after all!"

"Gentlemen," remarked Tom Reade solemnly, "I have the honor to make a motion to the effect that Messrs. Darrin, Holmes and Dalzell be appointed a committee of three to take Dick Prescott away and drown him in the nearest sizable body of water!"

"Carried!" proclaimed Hazelton.

Instead, however, all hands fell to work putting up the tent and preparing for supper.

"Rah, rah, rah!" rose joyously on the air. Then, out of the woods behind the camp appeared eight young men in multi-colored raiment. Gorgeous bands surrounded their straw hats; their blazer coats resembled so many rainbows. Yet, apart from their coats of many colors, these young men were smartly dressed, and it was plain that they carried with them considerable of an estimate of their own importance. Their average age appeared to be about twenty-one years.

"Rah, rah, rah!" rang the chorus again. Then one of the eight, moving in advance of The others, called back:

"Fellows, what have we here?"

"Gipsies!" called another.

"Plain hoboes!" from a third.

"It's a gang of juvenile desperadoes escaped from some reformatory," declared a fourth.

"Rah, rah, rah!"

With noisy yells the eight young men descended upon the camp.

"Don't you think you'd better steer off?" called Dave, putting himself as much as he could in their way.

"Why, it talks!" cried one of the rah-rah-rah fellows, in mock astonishment.

"Just like a human being!" added a third.

"Wonder what these animals are doing here?" propounded another.

So they invaded the camp, poking their heads in at the tent entrance, examining the wagon with a good deal of curiosity, and poking into the boxes containing the food that Dick and Greg had just laid out with a view to starting preparations for supper.

"Now, gentlemen," called Dick, "if you think your curiosity has been sufficiently gratified, do you mind clearing out and letting us alone?"

A variety of mocking replies greeted that proposition.

"We don't like to be disagreeable, you understand," Dave hinted, "but, really, we begin to feel that we have had a great sufficiency of your company, gentlemen."

"What are you going to do about it?" demanded one of the eight intruders rather aggressively.

Dave Darrin doubled his fists, ready to fight, now, at any further provocation. Even good-natured Tom looked about for some sort of club. But Dick answered, coolly:

"What are we going to do? First of all, we are merely going to suggest for your consideration the idea that gentlemen don't remain where they're not wanted."

"Freshie!" yelled one of the eight contemptuously.

"Toss him in a blanket," advised another.

"We don't mind your presence as much as your bad manners," Dick remarked coldly. "Will you kindly take your leave?"

"No!" shouted three or four of their tormentors derisively.

Dave, his fists still clenched, bounded forward. One chap, in an especially brilliant blazer, reached out to box Darry on the ear.

That blow never landed, but the tormentor did—on the earth.

"Eight rainbow hoboes, Looking for life's leaven, One bumped his eyelash, And then there were but seven!"

improvised Danny Grin joyously.

"Clean out this camp!" yelled one of the others.

"Come on and do it, then!" yelled Tom Reade, losing all patience at last.

Dick & Co. suddenly presented a solid fighting rank that had accomplished great things on the gridiron. In this formation they advanced toward their tormentors.

There might have been an ugly clash, but one of the eight shouted:

"Come on, fellows! Don't tease the babies. They haven't had their warm milk yet."

Away darted the rainbow eight, Darrin's victim being on his feet by this time and foremost in the retreat.

"Rah, rah, rah!" came back on the air as the high school boys broke a formation for which they had no further need at present.

"Those fellows are plainly guests at the hotel, and we're going to have trouble with them yet," Prescott predicted wisely.

XIII. A SNUB AND THE QUICK RETORT

At half-past five o'clock the next day, Dick & Co. strolled up to the porch of the Ashbury Terraces Hotel.

From one of the parlors a cry of recognition in a girlish voice floated out. Then appeared the Gridley High School girls, with Susie Sharp in the lead.

"I thought you told us you didn't have any other than your hike clothing with you!" Susie cried accusingly to Tom Reade.

"We didn't. We told you the truth," Reade rejoined.

"Then these——"

"These new clothes were bought with money from the treasury," Reade informed her.

"Does our appearance suit you, ladies?" Greg asked smiling.

"You look like so many tailor's models," replied Belle Meade, adding, sweetly: "If that is any praise."

Certainly Dick & Co., clad in well-fitting white duck suits, presented a creditable appearance.

"We've been preparing our friends at the Terraces for a different looking lot of young men," laughed Susie. "We have told them that a number of high school boy friends of ours were coming over to dinner and the hop attired in the same clothes they have been wearing in camp and on the road. Now we must apologize to them for presenting fashion plates."

The explanation, as Dick presently furnished it to Laura Bentley, was a simple one. Dick had been handling the funds of the six boys on this expedition, which had held out much longer than any of his chums had known. At the time of accepting the invitation young Prescott had felt sure that an Ashbury clothier would be able to furnish proper clothes for his party, and his guess had proved a correct one. Moreover, the treasury of Dick & Co. had been easily able to endure the drain, for these white clothes had not been costly.

Mrs. Bentley presently joined the little Gridley group of young people on the veranda. That good lady noted, with secret pleasure, the well-groomed appearance of her young guests.

"Rah, rah, rah!" came boisterously up the veranda, as the camp visitors of the evening before suddenly appeared. "Rah, rah, rah!"

Then, halting in a compact group midway on the veranda, they shouted in chorus:

"S-A-U-N-D-E-R-S! Saunders! Saunders! Siss-boom-a-a-ah! Rah, rah, rah!"

"College boys!" exclaimed Susie Sharp in an impatient undertone. "College boys, and the worst of their kind. They're noisy nuisances!"

"So far as any other guest has been able to discover they haven't any manners," Belle added.

Then, espying the girls and their guests the rah-rah-rah boys came briskly up the veranda.

"Good evening, Miss Meade!" called one of them, lifting his hat. "Glorious evening, isn't it? How many dances may I have the honor of claiming at the hop to-night?"

Belle Meade blushed slightly and drew back a step, resenting the young man's familiarity.

In front of the presumptuous youth stepped Dave Darrin, with eyes flashing.

"Kindly keep your distance, young man!" Dave advised, in a tone of dangerous quiet.

"Who asked you to speak?" inquired the rah-rah youth mockingly.

"I am a friend of the young lady, and she finds your presence an intrusion," replied Darry, controlling himself by a mighty effort.

"All guests of the hotel are supposed to be acquainted," urged the rah-rah youth, reddening a trifle.

"These young ladies do not wish to recognize you and your friends as acquaintances," replied Dave. "Kindly efface yourselves!"

"Don't make your lack of breeding too conspicuous," Dick advised, in a quiet undertone, to another of the intruders who had pushed forward to join in the conversation.

A sudden sense of discomfort seemed to sweep over the eight presuming young men. They turned and moved away, though muttering among themselves.

"That is the kind of young men I thought they were," Laura observed. "I am glad that you boys sent them off about their own affairs."

Dr. Bentley joined the young people last of all.

"I have just returned from a long walk," he explained. "I have to make the most of these brief summer vacations of mine."

When dinner was announced, Dr. and Mrs. Bentley and the young people took seats at a long table reserved for their party.

It was a pleasant meal in the midst of an animated scene.

Over at another table the rah-rah boys made a good deal of noise until the head waiter went to them, uttering a few words in low tones. After that the rah-rah youngsters quieted down considerably.

A delightful half-hour stroll on the verandas followed the dinner. Then, like most of the guests, the Gridley young people drifted into the hotel ballroom where the musicians were playing a march.

Dick secured Mrs. Bentley for the first dance, as the doctor preferred to remain on the veranda. Then, after the first dance, a general change of partners was made.

But the Gridley boys were too well bred to claim all the dances with their girl friends. Laura and her friends had other acquaintances at the hotel. Dick & Co. stood back to give these other young men a fair opportunity of securing some dances with the girls.

It was eleven o'clock when the hop had finished. For a few moments Dick & Co. chatted with the Gridley High School girls on the porch. Then they prepared to take their leave.

"We've had a splendid time, for which we must thank you all," Dick declared. "We did not look for any such pleasant evening as this has been when we left home on our hike."

"We are indebted to you all for the most delightful time of our lives," Tom stated formally with a very low bow.

"We couldn't have had a nicer time under any circumstances. Thank you all," Dave Darrin said, on taking leave.

The other boys found words in which to fitly express their pleasure and gratitude.

Then, as Mrs. Bentley and the girls went in side the hotel, the Gridley High School boys wheeled to march back to camp.

"I wonder what the head waiter said to the rah-rah boys?" asked Reade curiously.

"I don't know, but I can guess the meaning of what he said," laughed Darry. "Did you ever see such an ill-bred lot of fellows before!"

"They're not college boys," Dick declared quietly. "I don't know where they came from, but certainly none of them have ever been through as much as a year in any real college."

"They're about as frisky as some college boys," retorted Danny Grin.

"College boys may be full of mischief, at times," Dick returned, "but at least they know how to behave well when they should do so. College men never think it funny to be rude with women, for instance. College men are usually the sons of well-bred parents, and they also acquire additional finish at college. Moreover, the English language is one of the subjects taught in colleges. These cheeky rah-rah boys were very slip-shod in their speech. I don't know who these fellows are, but they're not real college men."

"Say, it must be nice," remarked Hazelton, "to be able to travel about the country, stopping at such nice hotels. Laura and her friends manage to have pretty good times."

"Their families are all better off than ours, in a worldly sense," Dick replied. "When you stop to think of it, there are far more girls than boys in our good old high school who come from comfortable homes. Perhaps two dozen of our high school fellows come from homes of considerable wealth. The rest of us don't. More than half of the Gridley High School girls come from families where servants are kept. I wonder if it is that way, generally, in the United States?"

Prescott had unwittingly stumbled upon a fact often noted. The homes of plain American wage earners send more boys than girls to high school. The well-to-do families send more of their boys to private schools, while their girls are more likely to attend high school.

However, as the boys neared their camp, all other thoughts were driven from their minds.

Tom Reade, who was leading, stopped abruptly, holding up one hand.

"Now, what do you think of anyone who would do a trick like that?" he demanded with a sharp in-drawing of his breath.

"The sneaks!" breathed Darry fiercely.

"Who could have done it?" gasped Greg.

For the tent was down—flat. The wagon lay on its side, nor was the horse anywhere in sight.

"Did those rascally tramps follow us and watch their chance?" demanded Dave Darrin hotly.

"I don't believe the tramps did it," spoke Prescott, in a very quiet voice, though an angry flush rose to his face. "I believe that we must look in a different direction for the offenders."

"The rah-rah hoodlums?" gasped Greg Holmes.

"Yes," Dick nodded.

XIV. DICK & CO. MAKE AN APPLE "PIE"

"Then I wish we had 'em here!" sputtered Tom Reade vengefully. "I could eat two of them at this moment, and without salt!"

"They need salting badly!" growled Dave Darrin angrily.

The tent was not only down. Each guy rope had been cut in the middle, so that the cordage could not be used again.

"I never saw anything more sneaking!" cried Reade in rage and disgust.

"Unless it will be the way that we shall sneak up behind the rah-rah crowd and square matters!" remarked Darry meaningly.

"First of all, we must be sure of their guilt," warned Dick. "It won't do to try to even up a score that's based only on suspicion. Wait until I get a lantern out of the wreck, and then we'll explore the ground to see if we can discover any real proof against the rascals."

"Let's get into our working clothes first," proposed Reade. "We might want to wear these white clothes again before we get home."

So Tom and Dave held up a part of the canvas while Dick slipped in under the folds of the tent to find the box in which they had left their hike clothing.

"The box isn't here," Dick called. "Neither can I see any of the bedding."

"Get hold here, fellows, and lift up more of the canvas," Reade called.

"There isn't anything in the tent. All the stuff has been cleaned out." Prescott announced in a voice of disgust.

"It was the tramps, then," Dave declared. "The rah-rah boys wouldn't take the risk of stealing anything."

"Hold on! I've found a lantern," called Prescott. "I'll come out with that."

He appeared a moment later, lighting the lantern.

"Now, let's see what we can find," he urged. Not far away the high school boys came upon the prints of sharp-toed shoes.

"The tramps didn't wear shoes that would make these prints," declared Dick. "Neither do any of our crowd. Fellows, we owe our surprise to the rah-rah humorists."

"Then we'll pay 'em back in good measure," cried Darry in exasperation.

After some searching Dick & Co. came upon their clothes chest, at a distance of some hundred yards from camp. The chest had not been rifled, for it was locked and the key rested in Dick's pocket.

"Help me with it, Tom, and we'll carry it back," said Prescott in a low, hard tone. "We need our working clothes at once, for there is work to be done to-night!"

The needed change of costume was quickly made. Off came the white suits, which were carefully folded and put away. Then on went the khaki and flannel clothing.

"Dan, you stay with the tent," Dick ordered, with the air of a general. "Greg, you and Harry make it your main business to see if you can find the horse. The rest of us will concern ourselves with finding out whether the rah-rah fellows are still outside the hotel."

"Here's the horse—grazing," shouted Greg, two minutes later.

"Run back, Dave, and pilot Greg and Harry here, after they've staked the horse down," Prescott suggested. "We don't want to make too much noise, for our tormentors may yet be about somewhere."

"Hazy stumbled upon some of the blankets," Greg announced, when he and Harry joined Dave. "I don't believe any of our stuff has been carried off, Dick. It has just been scattered."

"Perhaps we'd better gather in all our camp stuff first, then," Dick decided. "We can't afford to lose any of our camp outfit."

Ten or fifteen minutes of searching, with the aid of the lantern, resulted in recovering all of their scattered possessions, even to the last of the cots, pillows and blankets.

"Now, let's make a sweep of the dark parts of the hotel grounds, and we may happen upon the rah-rahs, still chuckling over the fun they've had with us."

But the five boys had not gone far when they were stopped by a well-dressed young stranger of about twenty.

"Mr. Prescott?" asked the stranger.

"Yes," nodded Dick.

"I am one of the bell-boys at the hotel. When I went off duty I asked the manager's permission to change my uniform for citizen's clothing and watch those eight noisy fellows."

"The college boys?" asked Harry quickly.

"They're not college boys!" returned the young stranger. "They've been giving a fake Saunders yell, and that was what made me dislike them, for I've just finished the sophomore year at Saunders myself. I'm working at the Terraces as bell-boy to help pay next year's tuition at Saunders. The manager permitted me to watch those fellows, but somehow they got away from me. I got track of them again near to your camp. Just as I came along they were scooting away, but a glance showed me the mischief they had worked, so I followed them."

"Do you know where they are now?" Dick asked eagerly.

"I know where they were ten minutes ago," replied the bell-boy.

"Then please take us to them as quickly as you can," begged Darry vehemently. "I'm fairly aching to pass the time of night with them!"

"I'll do it," agreed the bell-boy. "Follow me, please."

"I wonder why they went to all that trouble to be so disagreeable to us," Prescott muttered, as the little party strode along.

"You had some dispute with that crowd, on the hotel porch to-night, didn't you?" asked the bell-boy.

"Yes; they tried to address some of our girl friends, whom they didn't know and we objected to their insolence."

"That was what made the rah-rah boys sore," went on the bell-boy. "I heard them talking about it before I left them. It seems, too, that the manager sent the head waiter to stop their nonsense in the dining room to-night. For some reason these sham college boys blame you fellows for that humiliation also. So they're chuckling over what they've done to your outfit to teach you to mind your own business, as they put it."

"I hope we catch up with 'em before they get back to the hotel," uttered Tom fervently. "But warn us, please, whenever we get so close that they're likely to hear our voices."

The bell-boy now led them through an orchard.

"There seem to be a lot of apples on the ground," remarked Prescott, halting.

"Green ones—they're no good," replied the bell-boy.

"Then they are good—just what we want!" ejaculated Prescott. "Hold on, fellows! Fill your hats with these apples."

"What are you going to do when you come upon these fellows?" asked the bell-boy.

"Scuttle 'em—the way they did our tent!" Tom retorted.

"I hope you pay them back generously," muttered the bell-boy. "I've a score to settle with them for trying to blacken good old Saunders! But see here! Up to date, at least, they're guests of the hotel, and I'm an employe there. Now, if they get too much the better of matters in a scrimmage, I'll sail in with you boys, even though I have to resign my hotel job. But, if I see that you can handle 'em all right, I shall just stand by without taking any part in the fight"

"We understand your position, and appreciate it," Dick replied. "We thank you, too, but we believe that we can take care of them all by ourselves. If we can't, then we'll take our drubbing."

"You boys have done some things in athletics, haven't you?" asked the bell-boy, noting the way that each of the five present members of Dick & Co. carried himself.

"Gridley High School football team last season," Dick replied, a trace of justifiable pride in his voice.

"You were?" demanded the bell-boy eagerly. "Then shake! My name is Gerard. We know a lot about the Gridley High School brand of football at Saunders."

Introductions were quickly passed.

"Now, I'd like to feel that I'm really one of you, and I'll fight shoulder to shoulder with you!" chuckled Gerard.

"Please don't try to take a hand in any fight that may occur," Prescott begged. "If you're working your way through college, just keep your eye on your job. Don't mix up in any trouble with the guests."

"We'll soon be at the spot where I left the bunch," said Gerard, a few moments later.

Over a rise of ground the bell-boy led Dick & Co. Then he pointed to a little grove of chestnut trees.

"There is the rah-rah crowd," he whispered. "You see, they have one of your lanterns, and they're lunching on some of your food supplies that they brought along with them."

"I wonder what those freshies are saying now," came in a laughing voice, from the rah-rah group under the chestnut trees.

"Their potted chicken is all right, anyway," laughed another. "Cut me off another slice of the bread. Whee! This college mischief on a dark night gives one an appetite."

Dick gave whispered instructions to his own forces, then signed to Gerard, who drew back into the shadow.

"I'd like to see the fresh kids now," jeered another rah-rah youth.

"May all your wishes in life be as promptly fulfilled!" muttered Tom Reade under his breath.

"We might have had a nice time to-night dancing with the girls from Gridley if their kid friends hadn't stepped in and spoiled it all in their juvenile way," grumbled another.

"We've finished up all the borrowed food," said another. "What shall we do next?"

"For 'next,'" roared Dick Prescott, "you fake collegians will stand up and take your medicine!"

There was instant consternation in the group under the chestnut trees. All the rah-rah boys leaped to their feet, but, ere they could stir, there was a whizzing sound on the air.

Plunk! Plunk! Ker-plunk! Missiles were flying through the air and the rah-rahs were stopping a good many of them with their own persons.

"Hey! Stop that!" bellowed one of the rah-rahs. "You—wow!"

For his utterance had been for the moment stopped by a large-sized green apple that had struck him full in the mouth.

"Hey! Let up!"

But nothing could stay the fast and furious volley of green apples until Dick & Co. had exhausted their ammunition. Most of the shots found targets, too.

Once they had had time to recover from their bewilderment the rah-rahs turned in full, inglorious flight, without attempting to strike a single blow in their own defense. Who was going to be fool enough, anyway, to run blindly into a storm of flying green apples?

Dick and his chums expended the last of their ammunition while chasing the rah-rahs. Their missiles gone, the Gridley boys put on full speed, ran after and overhauled some of their late foes and drubbed them well.

But at last, by common consent, Dick & Co. came to a halt.

"I reckon we paid the score," laughed Prescott. "They ought to let us alone hereafter."

"No doubt they will," replied Gerard grimly, coming up with the Gridley boys. "I haven't a doubt that the manager will order them to leave the hotel in the morning."

After extending their heartiest thanks to Gerard, the Gridley boys returned to their camp. There, from their supplies, they rigged new guy-ropes and erected their tent. Soon after, all hands turned in, feeling quite secure against another visitation that night.

The manager, at first, the next morning, said nothing whatever to the rah-rah youths. But, at about ten o'clock a constable appeared and gathered in all of them on a charge of disturbing the peace.

Dick & Co. were not even asked to go the justice's court. The hotel manager and bell-boy were on hand, but the crest-fallen lot of rah-rah youths all pleaded guilty. They paid fines of ten dollars apiece.

Then, on their return to the hotel, they were informed that their rooms were wanted at once.

The manager and Gerard personally escorted the rah-rah boys off the grounds of the Ashbury Terraces, and they were seen no more thereabouts. Who they were was not learned, but Gerard's word was accepted that the rah-rah boys had no connection with Saunders College.

Dick & Co. had two more pleasant meetings with their high school friends before an about-face was made, and the return hike to Gridley started.

Their liveliest adventures were yet ahead of them.

XV. MAKING PORT IN A STORM

"Did you ever see a blacker, more peculiar looking cloud coming than that one?" demanded Tom Reade, as the high school boys emerged from the gloom of a long, narrow forest road into comparatively open country.

"Is it a coming storm, or an optical delusion?" pondered Dick, halting and staring hard.

"It looks like pictures I've seen of water spouts," Greg declared.

"That's what it is," Dick replied quietly. "Though I've never seen one before, it's hard to be fooled, for that chap looks just like his published photographs. And look at that queer, brownish, half-yellowish sky back of it. It certainly looks forbidding."

"And we're going to have a stormy afternoon of it!" muttered Dave.

"The waterspout will go by to the north," Reade conjectured, studying the oddly-shaped, rapidly moving and twisting blackish cloud, "but we're going to be right in line with the main storm that is traveling with it."

"And we've got to prepare against the weather, too!" Dick cried, with sudden realization. "Fellows, the storm that is coming down on us isn't going to be any toy zephyr!"

After leaving Ashbury the boys had decided to return to Gridley by a different road.

"There's the place for us, if we can make it!" cried Dick an instant later, pointing toward the slope.

"Dave, whip up the horse. He has to travel fast for his own safety. Tom and Greg, you get behind and push the wagon up the slope. We'll all help in turn. But hustle!"

The crest of the rise of ground being made, the boys found themselves entering another forest. Dick here found the ground as favorable to his purpose as he had hoped it would be, for on the further side the land sloped downward again, and was well-wooded.

"Drive in there!" called Prescott, pointing, then ran ahead to find the best spot for pitching the tent.

"Whoa!" yelled Prescott, when he had reached the spot that he judged would do best for camp purposes. "Now, Dave, go over to the other side of the horse! Help me to get him out of the shafts. The poor animal must be our first consideration, for he can't help himself. The rest of you unload all the stuff from the wagon as fast as you can move."

Slipping the harness from the horse, Dick fastened a halter securely, then ran the horse down into a little gully where the animal would be best protected from the force of the wind that would come with the storm.

Driving a long iron stake into the ground, Dick tethered the animal securely. Then he ran back to help his chums.

"Here's the best site for the tent," Prescott called, snatching up a stick and marking the site roughly. "Now, hustle! No; don't use the wooden stakes for the tent ropes. Drive the long iron stakes, and drive them deep!"

Then Prescott ran back with oats and corn for the horse, leaving a generous feed for the animal.

"You'll need plenty to eat, old fellow, for the storm is going to be a long and cold one."

Then Prescott ran back at full speed to his chums who were erecting the tent.

First, the four corner stakes were driven, and the guy-ropes made fast.

"Greg and Dan can drive all the other pins, if they hustle," Dick announced. "Tom, you and Dave get the floor planks down, and rig up the stove—inside the tent."

"There won't be time to lay the flooring," Reade objected, taking a hurried squint at the now more threatening sky.

"There's got to be time to lay the flooring, unless you all want to sleep in water to-night," Dick insisted. "Harry, just break your back with the loads of wood that you bring in. I'll fill all the buckets with water."

In ten minutes more everything had been carried inside the tent. Big drops of rain were beginning to patter down.

"We've everything ready just in time to the minute," Tom Reade observed with a satisfied chuckle.

"Not everything quite ready," Prescott retorted. "Tom, if you're going to grow up to be an engineer there's one thing more you should see the need of."

"What?" challenged Reade blankly.

"Get the pick and shovel! You and I will do it. Let the rest get in under shelter!"

Standing in the rain, Tom and Dick hastily dug two ditches at either end of the tent. These ditches were no creditable engineering jobs, but they would, at need, carry a good deal of water down the slope.

By this time the rain was falling heavily. In the distance heavy thunder volleyed, and the sky was growing blacker every minute.

"One more job," called Dick. "Dave and Greg, tumble out with the shelter flap!"

This was a great sheet of canvas that had to be fastened in place over the tent roof, and at a different pitch.

"We'll be drowned before we get the shelter flap in place," grumbled Tom.

"And we might as well be out in the rain, if we don't have it up," Dick retorted. "Open her up! Now, then—up with it!"

The shelter flap was placed with difficulty, for now the wind was driving across the country, blowing everything before it. The other two boys leaped out to help their chums. The shelter flap was made secure at last, the ropes being made fast to the surrounding trees.

By this time the wind was blowing at the rate of fifty miles an hour. The sky was nearly as black as on a dark night, while the rain was coming down "like another Niagara," as Harry Hazelton put it.

"We don't care whether we have a dry tent or not, now," laughed Dan Dalzell, as the six boys made a break for cover. "We're soaking, anyway, and a little more water won't hurt."

"I'll get a fire going in the stove," Dick smiled. "Soon after that we'll be dry enough—if the tent holds."

The stove was already in place, a sheet-iron pipe running up one of the tent walls and out through a circular opening in the canvas of the side wall opposite from the wind.

While Dick was making the fire, Tom Reade filled, trimmed and lighted the two lanterns.

"Listen to the storm!" chuckled Prescott. "But we're comfy and cheery enough. Now, peel off your outer clothes and spread them on the campstools to dry by the fire. We'll soon be feeling as cheery as though we were traveling in a Pullman car."

Within a short time all six were dry and happy. The lightning had come closer and closer, until now it flashed directly overhead, followed by heavy explosions of thunder.

Not one of the boys could remember a time when it had ever rained as hard before. It seemed to them as though solid sheets of water were coming down. Yet the position of the tent, aided by the ditches, kept their floor dry. Dan, peering out through the canvas doorway, reported that the ditches were running water at full capacity.

"This will all be over in an hour," hazarded Greg.

"It may, and it may not be," Dick rejoined. "My own guess is that the storm will last for hours."

As the howling wind gained in intensity it seemed as though the tent must be blown to ribbons, but stout canvas will stand considerable weather strain.

"If we had driven the wooden pins for the guy-ropes," muttered Greg, "everyone of them would have been washed loose by this time."

"They would have been," Dick assented, "and the tent would now be down upon our heads, a drenched wreck. As it is, I think we can pull through a night of bad weather."

In an hour the flashes of lightning had become less frequent. The wind had abated slightly, but there was no cessation of the downpour.

"I pity anyone who has to travel the highway in this storm," muttered Dave. "This isn't weather for human beings."

"Yet every bird of the air has to weather it," observed Hazelton.

"Yes," muttered Tom, "and a good many of the birds of the air will be killed in this storm, too."

Night came down early. The wind and rain had sent the temperature down until it seemed to the high school boys more like an October night. The warmth and light in the tent were highly gratifying to all.

"As long as the tent holds I can't think of a blessed thing we have to go outside for," sighed Reade contentedly.

"We don't have to," laughed Dick. "Fellows, we're away off in the wilderness, but we're as happy as we could be in a palace. How about supper?"

That idea was approved instantly.

"We'll have two suppers to-night," proposed Tom. "That will be the visible proof and expression of the highest happiness that can be reached on a night like this."

Even by ten o'clock that night there was no abatement in the volume of rain falling. The wind still howled.

"Are we going to turn in, soon?" inquired Dave.

"My vote," announced Tom indolently, "is for another supper, and turn in at perhaps two o'clock in the morning."

"I second the motion—as far as another supper goes," chimed in Danny Grin.

"It wants to be a supper of piping hot stuff, too," declared Greg. "It's warm here in the tent, but the surrounding world is chill and drear. Nothing but hot food will serve us."

Preparations for the meal were quickly under way.

"I hope everyone within the reach of this storm is as comfortable as we are," murmured Hazelton.

"Why, we're so happy, we could entertain company with a relish," laughed Reade.

"Say, what was that?" demanded Greg.

From outside came a faint sound as of someone stealthily groping about outside in the storm.

"Bring a lantern, quickly!" called Dick, going toward the tent door.

As Greg played the rays of light against the darkness outside, Dick suddenly sprang forth into the dark. Then he returned, bearing in his arms the pitiful little figure of old Reuben Hinman, the peddler.

"Look at his head!" gasped Reade, in horror, as Prescott entered with the burden.

From a gash over the peddler's left temple blood was flowing, leaving its dark trail over the peddler's light brown coat.

Dick carried the stricken old man straight to his own cot, laying him there gently.

"Who can have done this deed?" gasped Greg, throbbing with sympathy for the poor old man.

Outside other approaching steps sounded. Dave and Tom, snatching up sticks of firewood, sprang forward.

XVI. HOME, HOSPITAL AND ALMSHOUSE

Greg flashed the lantern on four hulking, bedraggled ragged men.

"Hello! It's the same kids!" cried a hoarse voice out in the storm. "They'll be glad to see us."

"You keep out of here!" ordered Reade, thrusting his stick at the face of the first tramp—the boss tramp—who tried to enter.

"No!" countermanded Dick Prescott. "Let even the hoboes come in. Let anyone come in on a night like this."

"Now, that's decent of you," admitted the boss tramp, as he sloshed heavily in, followed by three companions. Two of these tramps had been with the "boss" on another well remembered occasion. The third was a stranger to Dick & Co.

"My, but you've got a real house in here a true port in a storm," observed the boss tramp, as he halted to stare about him. "Friends, this is the best thing we've seen today."

"It is," agreed the other tramps solemnly.

The glance of the newcomers did not rest upon the face of Reuben Hinman, for Prescott had gently spread a blanket so that it effectually concealed the little old peddler.

"What have you men been doing?" asked Dick, straightening up and eyeing them coldly, steadily.

"Drowning in the woods," replied the boss, "for we knew we couldn't find a house or barn within two miles, and the road is like a river you need a boat for travel to-night. When the storm came we men made a brush lean-to and kept as dry as we could under it. But it got worse and worse. But at last we caught sight of your light shining through the trees. So we headed for it. We hoped you'd have a stove with a fire in it, and you have—so we're all right, and much obliged."

"Keep back there a bit," ordered Dick, so firmly that the tramps obeyed. "Dave, help me to lift this cot over within a few feet of the stove. Be as gentle as you can."

Four tramps looked on in solemn curiosity as they saw Darrin and Prescott lift a cot on which lay something completely covered by a blanket.

Then Dick turned down the blanket, revealing the bruised, bleeding head of Reuben Hinman.

"What do you men know about this?" Prescott demanded, eyeing them compellingly.

But the tramps' look was one of such astonished innocence that Prescott began to wonder whether he had wrongly suspected these knights of the highway.

"Why did you do—this?" Prescott sternly insisted.

"We—we didn't do it!" exclaimed the boss tramp fervently. "We didn't even know that this old party was anywhere out in the storm. We——"

Moaning, Reuben Hinman stirred slightly then opened his eyes dreamily.

"Mr. Hinman, can you talk?" asked Dick gently.

"Ye-es," faintly admitted the peddler.

"Then how were you hurt, sir?" Dick pressed in the same gentle voice.

"I—I saw the light. Tried—to drive my horse—in. Wagon turned over. Fell off—and hurt my head," replied the peddler, whispering hoarsely.

"You're fully conscious, Mr. Hinman, and know just what you're saying?" Dick pressed.

"Yes, Prescott. I know."

"Then no one else assaulted you to-night, sir."

"No—one."

"I feel like saying 'thank heaven' for that!" exclaimed Dick in a quiet voice, as he straightened up, his eyes a trifle misty. "I hate to think that the earth holds men vile enough to strike down a weak old man like this!"

"And on such a night," added Tom Reade.

"Oh, we're pretty bad," said the boss tramp, huskily, "but we didn't do anything like that."

"At first," Dick went on, "I thought you hoboes had done the deed. That was why I asked my friend to let you come in. I wanted to keep you here until we could find someone who would take care of you."

"We didn't do it," replied the boss tramp, "and the old man says we didn't."

"No; no man struck me—I fell," chimed in the peddler weakly.

"We'll help you take care of the old man," offered the boss tramp.

"If you mean what you say," Prescott proposed, "then take one of these lanterns and go down by the road to see what you can find out about Mr. Hinman's horse and wagon. Or did you see them as you came up?"

"No, for we came through the woods," replied the boss tramp. "I'll take the lantern. Come with me, Joe."

Out into the dark plunged the two tramps, to face the heavily falling rain. For once, at any rate, they were doing something useful.

At a signal from Dick, Greg put some water on the stove to heat. Prescott found some clean cloth in their wardrobe box and bathed the wound on Mr. Hinman's temple, then washed his entire face. The wound proved to be broad, rather than deep, and was such as might have been caused by falling on sharp pebbles. Then Dick bound up the wound.

Next, Dick and Greg undressed Mr. Hinman and rubbed him down, then rolled him in dry blankets and laid him on another cot not far from the stove.

"Come out, you other hoboes," called the boss tramp's voice. "Come and help us right the peddler's wagon and bring that and the horse up here."

The other two tramps went reluctantly out into the storm.

A bottle full of hot water, wrapped in a towel, was placed at the peddler's feet.

In the meantime the tramps got the wagon into a sheltered position, then staked the horse out close to the place where the Gridley horse was tethered. This having been accomplished, they came back to the camp, to find a new aroma on the air.

"That stuff smells good. What is it?" asked the boss tramp.

"Ginger tea. We've made some to give to Mr. Hinman."

"Will you give us some, too?" asked the tramp. "We're all of us chilled and hoarse."

"I will," Dick nodded, "if you men will undertake to fill the buckets before you try to dry yourselves. Otherwise, we shall run out of water."

Grunting, the boss tramp and one of his companions listened while Dick directed them where to find running water. Out again into the storm they lurched, and soon had all the water buckets filled and in the tent.

While the tramps dried their clothing, Prescott kept his word about making ginger tea.

"This seems like the best stuff I've had since I was a baby," remarked the boss tramp, in a somewhat grateful voice.

"Maybe that's because you've worked for it," suggested Reade thoughtfully.

"I wonder," grunted the hobo. "I wonder."

Later on Dick and his chums prepared a supper, of which all partook except the peddler, who needed sleep and warmth more.

The tramps slept on the floor, later on. Tom, Dave and Harry slept on their cots, while the other three high school boys remained awake.

Toward two o'clock in the morning Dick found Reuben Hinman's skin becoming decidedly feverish, and began to administer nitre.

"I'd mount our horse, and try to ride for a doctor, if I thought I could get one," murmured Greg.

"You couldn't get one here to-night," volunteered the boss tramp, who had awakened and had risen on one elbow. "Neither an automobile nor a buggy could be driven over this wild road to-night. The water is three feet deep in spots—worse in some others."

Though the deluge outside still continued, all would have been cheery inside had it not been for the alarm Dick & Co. felt over the increasing fever of the poor old peddler. His breathing became more and more labored.

Dave awoke and came over to listen and look on.

"I'll try to go for a doctor," he whispered.

"You might even reach one," Dick replied. "I'd be willing to try myself, but we couldn't get a physician through on a night like this."

"At least I'll go down and have a look at the road," muttered Reade, rising, wrapping himself up as best he could, and taking a lantern.

Tom presently returned, looking like a drowned rat.

"It's no go," he announced gloomily. "The road is a river."

"Sure it is," muttered the boss tramp, "or—as you lads have been so decent to me—I'd go myself and try to find a doctor."

XVII. TWO KINDS OF HOBO

Toward daylight the rain ceased. Dawn came in heavy and misty, but after an hour the sun shone forth, dispelling the low-lying clouds.

Dick was sound asleep at this time, Tom and Harry having relieved the other watchers. All of the tramps lay stretched on the hard wooden floor, since none of the high school boys cared to have one of these fellows lying on his cot even when it was not in use.

"Go down and take a look at the road, Hazy," Tom desired, after the sun had been out for an hour.

"The water's running out of the road, or drying off, pretty fast" Hazelton reported on his return. "Still, a doctor would have a hard job getting over the road as yet."

"Did you see anyone trying to get over the road with a vehicle?" Reade inquired.

"Not a soul or a wheel," Harry answered. "As far as travel goes the road might as well be a strip of the Sahara Desert."

Reuben Hinman's breathing was so labored that it disturbed the watchers a good deal.

"We're doing all we can for you, and we'll get better care for you, just as soon as we can," Tom explained, resting a hand on the fever-flushed face.

"I know," wheezed the old man painfully. "Good boy!"

By eight o'clock all hands were astir.

"Are we going to get any breakfast to-day?" asked the tramp known as Joe.

"Yes," nodded Dick, choking back the temptation to say something caustic.

By nine o'clock the meal had been eaten. The stove now made the tent so hot that Mr. Hinman's cot had to be moved to the farther end and the tent flaps thrown open to admit cooler air.

Greg had attended to feeding both of the horses, which had gotten through the dismal night without very much discomfort.

Now Dick went down to look at the road.

"I'm going to mount our horse, bareback, and keep straight on up the road," he announced, coming back. "I will not have to go very far before I find a physician."

"No, you're not going, either," broke in the boss tramp. "I am going."

"But, see here, I can't very well let a stranger like you go off with our horse," Dick objected smilingly.

"You don't have to," retorted the other. "I'll go on foot, and I'll make the trip as fast as I can, too. But maybe you'd better give me a note to the doctor. He might not pay much attention to a sick call from a fellow who looks as tough as I do."

"If I let you go, can I depend upon you to keep right on going straight and fast, until you deliver a note to a doctor?" asked Prescott, eyeing the boss tramp keenly.

"Yes!" answered the tramp, returning the glance with one so straightforward that Dick felt he could really trust the man. "And if the first doctor won't or can't come, I'll keep on going until I find one who will take the call."

"Good for you!" cried Tom Reade heartily. "And if it weren't for fear of startling you, I'd say that the next thing you'll be doing will be to find and accept a job, and work again like a useful man!"

"That would be startling," grinned the fellow, half sullenly.

Dick wrote the note. Away went his ill-favored looking messenger. Dick turned to administer more nitre to the peddler.

"Do you expect to move on at all to-day?" Dave asked of Dick.

"It wouldn't be really wise, would it?" Dick counter-queried. "Our tent and shelter flap are pretty wet to take down and fold away in a wagon. We'd find it wet going, too. Hadn't we better stay here until to-morrow, and then break camp with our tent properly dry?"

All hands voted in favor of remaining—except the hoboes, who weren't asked. They would remain indefinitely, anyway, if permitted, and if the food held out.

But Dick soon set them to work. One was despatched for water, the other two set to gathering wet firewood and spreading it in the sun to dry out. Nor did the trio of remaining tramps refuse to do the work required of them, though they looked reluctant enough at first.

Two more hours passed.

"I'm afraid our friend, Hustling Weary, is having a hard time to get a doctor who'll come down the road," Dick remarked to Darrin.

"Oh, the doctor will come, if Weary has found him," Dave replied. "Doctors always come. They have to, or lose their reputations."

Half an hour later a business-like honk! was heard. Then, through the trees Dick & Co. saw an automobile halt down at the side of the road. A tall, stout man, who looked to be about sixty-five years old, but who displayed the strength and speed of a young man, leaped from the car, followed by the tramp messenger.

"Mr. Prescott?" called the big stranger.

"Yes, sir," bowed Dick.

"Dr. Hewitt. Let me see your patient."

For some minutes the physician bent over the peddler, examining and questioning the old man, who answered with effort.

"I must get Hinman to a hospital some miles from here," the physician explained, aside, to Dick. "The poor old man is going to have pneumonia, and he'd die without hospital care. Probably he'll die, anyway. I'll give him a hypodermic injection in the arm, then wait for him to become quiet. After that we'll move him to the tonneau of my car and I'll take him to the hospital. I telephoned Hinman's son, over at Fenton, telling him where his father and his wagon are. The son ought to come over and take charge of the outfit."

It was three quarters of an hour later when Dr. Hewitt examined his patient, then remarked:

"He can be moved now, as well as at any time."

"There's someone coming," announced Reade, as the sound of a horse's hoofs were heard. Tom went out to look at the new arrival.

A man of forty, rather flashily dressed, though somewhat mud-spattered, rode up on a horse that looked much the worse for being abroad on the bad roads.

"I understand that Mr. Hinman is here, ill," began the stranger.

"He is," Tom nodded. "Have you any interest in him?"

"Mr. Hinman is my father."

"Come right in," Tom invited, throwing open the flap of the tent.

"Hold my horse, will you?"

Something in the younger Hinman's way of making the request caused Reade's backbone to stiffen.

"I see that you have a piece of halter rope," Tom replied. "You may tie your horse to any one of the trees. They don't belong to me."

The son frowned, but led his mount to a tree, hitching it there. Then he turned and entered the tent.

"How are you, father?" asked the younger Hinman, crossing to the cot and bending over the old man.

"Better, already, I think," replied Reuben Hinman feebly.

"I should hope so," replied Timothy Hinman, looking more than a trifle annoyed. "You had no business to be out in that storm."

"I couldn't help——" began the old man slowly, but Dr. Hewitt broke in almost fiercely:

"Your father is in no condition to talk, Mr. Hinman. I telephoned you so that you might come over and take charge of the horse and wagon. There is quite a bit of stock on the wagon, too, I believe."

"My father must have considerable money with him," the young man hinted.

"He has some," Dick replied. "I do not know how much."

"I will take charge of his money for him," offered young Hinman.

"You will do nothing of the sort," broke in Dr. Hewitt, scowling. "Hinman, your father will be some time at the hospital, and he will want to be able to pay his bills there. He will also want to be able to purchase some comforts for himself while convalescing. So your father will take his money with him to the hospital."

"He can turn it over to me, if he has a mind to do so," insisted the younger man.

"You get out of here!" ordered the doctor, speaking decisively, though in a low tone. At the same time he pointed to the doorway of the tent. Just then the doctor looked as though he might rather enjoy the opportunity of throwing young Hinman out into the open air. The peddler's son walked outside of the tent with an air of offended dignity.

"Now, will four of you young men take hold of that cot, gently, and carry it out to my car?" asked Dr. Hewitt.

Dick, Dave, Tom and Greg served as the litter bearers. Then, under Dr. Hewitt's instructions, they lifted the old man into the tonneau of the car as though he had been an infant. The boss tramp had already taken his place in the tonneau of the machine. After blankets brought by the physician had been wrapped about the peddler the tramp contrived to rest the old man against his own broad shoulder.

"Good-bye, father," said the younger Hinman, who had looked on with a frown on his face. "I hope you'll be all right soon."

Reuben Hinman tried to smile. He also moved as though trying to stretch out a hand to his son, but the folds of the blankets prevented.

Dr. Hewitt went back to the tent to get his medicine case, which he had intentionally left behind. As he went he signed to Dick & Co. to accompany him.

"You young men haven't done anything for the old man for which I am going to commend you," said the physician bluntly. "You've simply done what any upright, humane, decent people would have done for a stricken old man, and you've done it well. But by contrast you noticed the younger Hinman's conduct. He is not worried that his father is ill, but hopes that the old man will soon be back at his work. Of course, he hopes that his father will be at work, soon; for when the old man stops working the younger man will very likely have to go to work himself."

"You don't mean, doctor, that that big, healthy-looking fellow is supported by his father?" gasped Dick Prescott.

"That's just what I mean," nodded the man of medicine.

"Why, I didn't suppose that old Mr. Hinman earned much."

"In the tin-peddler's business it's nearly all profit except the wear and tear on horse and wagon," smiled the physician. "One who isn't fitted for that line of work would starve to death at it, but Reuben Hinman has always been a shrewd, keen dealer in his own line of work. Strange as it may seem, Reuben is believed to make more than three hundred dollars a month. He gives it all to that son and two daughters. He wanted to bring his children up to be ladies and gentlemen—and they are! They are all three of them too shiftless to do any work. They take the old man's money, but they won't live with him. They are too busy in 'society' to bother with the old man. On what he is able to turn over to his children every month they keep a rather pretentious home in Fenton, though they live a full mile away from their father. They never go near him, except for more money. If they meet him on his wagon, or when he is walking in his old clothes, they refuse to recognize him. Yet, though Reuben Hinman isn't a fool in anything else, he is very proud of the fact that his son is a 'gentleman,' and that his daughters are 'ladies.' Now, in a nutshell, you know the tragedy of the old man's life. Young Tim Hinman would, if he could, take the old man's money away from him at once and let him go to the hospital as a charity patient."

"Humph!" muttered Dick, and then was silent.

Timothy Hinman, when Dr. Hewitt and the boys stepped outside the tent, was inspecting the dingy old red wagon with a look of contempt on his face.

"What am I going to do with this crazy old rattle-trap?" inquired young Hinman plaintively. "Would one of you boys accept a dollar to drive this over to Fenton, and put the horse up in my father's barn? The trip can be made in two days of good driving."

Dick Prescott shook his head in order that he might avoid speaking.

"I came by train, within five miles of here, then hired a horse and rode over here," the younger Hinman went on. "So I've got to take the horse back to where I got it, and then return by train. So I'll pay a dollar and a half to the boy who will drive this rig back to Fenton."

This time there was no response to the magnificent offer.

"See here," muttered young Hinman half savagely, "it's more than the job is worth, but I'll pay two dollars to have this rig driven home. Will you take the job?"

He looked directly at Dick Prescott, who replied bluntly:

"Thank you; I won't."

"But what on earth am I going to do with the horse and wagon, then?" demanded Timothy Hinman, as though he found Prescott's refusal preposterous.

"I would suggest," offered Dick coolly, "that you drive your father's rig home yourself."

"I drive it?" gasped the son.

"Certainly."

"But it's no job for a gentleman!" protested the younger Mr. Hinman, looking very much aghast.

"Then I don't know whether or not the owner of these woods would consent to your leaving your father's property here," replied Prescott, as he turned on his heel.

Dr. Hewitt had watched the scene with a good deal of amusement. Now the physician turned to see whether his patient were as comfortable as possible.

"My man," said the doctor, to the boss tramp, "you hold my patient as comfortably and skillfully as though you had once been a nurse. Were you ever one?"

"No, sir," replied the tramp. "It just comes natural."

"I've been looking for a man to work for me," continued Dr. Hewitt, regarding the tramp with calculating eyes. "I believe that you've got in you the making of a real man if you'd only stop being a tramp. How would you like to try it out?"

"I dunno," replied the boss tramp, looking a bit staggered.

"If you go to work for me, I don't want you to take it up as a casual experiment," went on the man of medicine. "I haven't any time for experiments. But, if you'll declare positively that you're going to make a useful man of yourself, and that you'll live up to what I expect of you, I'll take you on. I won't have an idler about my place, and I won't tolerate any use of alcohol. If you shirk or drink—even once out you go. But I'll start you at ten dollars a month and board, and raise you—if I keep you—two dollars a month until you're getting thirty dollars a month and board as a steady thing. Are you man enough to take me up, and to make it worth my while to take you on?"

"Yes," replied the boss tramp huskily, after a struggle with himself.

"All right, then, we'll see how much a man you are. By the way, what's your name?"

"Jim Joggers," replied the tramp.

Dr. Hewitt eyed the fellow keenly for a few seconds, before he replied, with a slight smile:

"All right; we'll let it go at Joggers until you've put yourself far enough forward so that you'll be willing to use your own name."

Honk! honk! The car was under way.

When Dick and his three friends turned back to the tent they found all three of the remaining tramps in there, smoking vile pipes and playing with a greasy, battered pack of cards. "The weather's fine again," announced Dick, "and you'll find us the most hospitable fellows you ever met. My friends, we take pleasure in offering you the whole outside world in which to play!"

"Talk United States!" growled one of the tramps, without looking up from the game.

"Tom," laughed Prescott, turning to Reade, "strange dialects are your specialty. Kindly translate, into 'United States,' what I have just said to these men."

"I will," agreed Tom. "Attention, hoboes! Look right at me! That's right. Now—git!"

"You might let us stay on a bit longer," grumbled one of the tramps. "We ain't bothering you folks any."

"Only eating us out of house and home," snapped Dave.

"And delaying the time when we must wash up the tent after you," added Danny Grin.

But the tramps played on, smoked on.

"Did you fellows ever hear of that famous man, Mr. A. Quick Expediter?" Tom asked the tramps.

"No," growled one of them.

"Expediter was a truly great man," Tom continued. "He had a motto. It was a short one. One word, and that word was—'git'!"

"We are famed for our courtesy," remarked Darry. "We'd hate to lose even a shred of our reputation in that line. But in these present years of our young lives we are football players by training, and high school boys merely for pleasure. We know some of the dandiest tackles you ever saw. Shall we show you a few of them? If you object to observing our tackles—and sharing in the effects—then signify your wishes by placing yourselves at a safe distance from such enthusiastic football wranglers as we are."

Greg, Danny Grin and Harry were already crouching as though for a spring. Dave took his place in an imaginary football line-up, leaning slightly forward. Tom Reade sighed, then advanced to the line. All were waiting for the battle signal from Dick Prescott.

By this time the most talkative of the three tramps noted the signs of a gathering squall.

"Come on, mates," he urged, with a sulky growl, "let's get out of here. These young fellows want their place all to themselves. They're just like all of the capitalistic class that are ruining the country to-day! Things in this country are coming to a pass where there's nothing for the fellow who——"

"Who won't work hard enough to get the place in the world that he wants," Tom Reade finished for the tramp, as he ushered the three of them through the doorway.

XVIII. DICK PRESCOTT, KNIGHT ERRANT

That day of enforced tie-up was followed by three days of hard hiking. The Gridley High School boys showed the fine effects of their two vigorous, strenuous outings. Each had taken on weight slightly, though there was no superfluous flesh on any of the six. They were bronzed, comparatively lean-looking, trim and hard. Their muscles were at the finest degree of excellence.

"We set out to get ourselves as hard as nails," remarked Dave, as the boys bathed in a secluded bit of woodland through which a creek flowed. It was, the morning of their fourth day of renewed hiking. After the swim and breakfast that was to follow, there were twenty miles of rural roads to be covered before the evening camp was pitched.

"I guess we've won all we set out to get, haven't we?" inquired Reade, squaring his broad shoulders with an air of pride. "I feel equal to anything that a fellow of my size and years could do."

"I think, without boasting, we may consider ourselves the six most valuable candidates for Gridley High School football this year," Prescott declared. "We ought to be the best men for the team; we've worked hard to get ourselves in the pink of physical condition."

"I wouldn't care to be any stronger than I am," laughed Danny Grin. "If I were any stronger folks would be saying that I ought to go to work."

"You will have to go to work within another year," Dick laughed, "whatever that work may be. But you must work with your brain, Danny boy, if you're to get any real place in life. Your muscles are intended only as a sign that your body is going to be equal to all the demands that your brain may make on that body."

"If my mental ability were equal to my physical strength I wouldn't have to work at all," grinned Dalzell.

Splash! His dive carried him under the surface of the water. Presently he came up, blowing, then swimming with strong strokes.

"Danny boy seems to have the same idea so many people have," laughed Prescott. "They think that a man who does all his real work with his brain isn't working at all, just because he doesn't get into a perspiration and wilt his collar."

Splash! splash! Reade and Darrin were in the water racing upstream.

"I don't know when I've ever found so much happiness in a summer," asserted Greg, as he poised himself for a dive into the water.

"I wonder if Timmy Hinman ever had the nerve to stick to his father's wagon long enough to get it back to Fenton," said Dave, as he swam beside Reade.

"If he ever took that wagon home, I'll wager that he drove the last few miles late at night, so that his 'society' friends wouldn't have the shock of seeing him drive the peddling outfit that sustains him," Reade replied.

"I'll never forget the younger Hinman's disgusted look when he tried to drive the outfit from our camp, the other morning, with his saddle mount tied behind and balking on the halter," grinned Darry.

"I wonder why such fellows as Timothy Hinman were ever created," Tom went on. "Every time I think about the gentlemanly Timmy I feel as though I wanted to kick something."

Only the day before, stopping at a postoffice on the route, as had been arranged with Dr. Hewitt, Dick & Co. had received word that the peddler was seriously ill with pneumonia, with all the chances against his recovery.

"If the peddler should die," suggested Dave soberly, "do you believe that Timmy Hinman will be able to face the thought of going to work for a living?"

"It would be an awful fate," Tom declared grimly. "Timmy might try to work, but I don't know whether he would be able to live through the shock and shame of having to earn the money for paying his own bills in life."

"There's that irrepressible Dick again!" called Greg five minutes later.

"What's he up to now?" asked Tom, from further up the creek.

"He has had his rub-down, got his clothing on and is now at work frying bacon and eggs."

"Then don't disturb him," begged Reade, "or he might fry short of the quantity of food that is really going to be required."

Five minutes more, however, saw the last of the boys out of water and rapidly getting themselves in shape to perform their own required duties. There could be no idlers in the party when Dick & Co. were away from home on a hike.

Yet, once breakfast had been disposed of, and the dishes washed, there seemed something in the August air that made them all disinclined to break camp and move on.

"I wish we could stay here all day, and move on to-morrow," murmured Hazy, thus voicing the thought of some of the others.

"And then blame the tramps for loafing!" exclaimed Dick.

"Do we look as though we had loafed this summer?" challenged Dalzell.

"No; but one or two of you would have done a good deal of it if you hadn't been afraid of the contempt of the others," smiled Prescott.

"Honestly, now," demanded Hazy, "wouldn't you enjoy just staying here and lounging today, Dick Prescott?"

"I would," Dick assented.

"There, now!"

"But that isn't what we left home to do, so we won't do it."

"Eh?" queried Hazy.

"Attention, Lazybones Squad!" called Prescott, springing up. "Hazy, harness the horse and hitch him to the wagon. Tom, Dave and Greg, take down the tent. I'll pack the bedding. Dan, load the kitchen stuff on the wagon."

This occupied a few minutes.

"Now, all hands turn to and load on the floor planks, bedding and the tent," called Dick.

This, too, was quickly accomplished, though all six were now perspiring.

"Greg, I believe it's your turn to drive first to-day," Prescott announced. "Up with you! Forward—march!"

Dick led the way out of camp, at a brisk four-mile-an-hour stride. The long hike was started, at last. After that there was no grumbling, even during the hourly halt of ten minutes.

The noon halt found them with eleven and a half miles covered out of the twenty. Five o'clock brought Dick & Co. to the outskirts of Fenton, a town of some twenty-five hundred inhabitants.

"Whoa!" called Tom, reining up half a mile from the town. "There are woods here, Dick. If we go any closer to Fenton, we'll either have to keep on traveling to the other side of the town, or ask the authorities for permission to camp on the common. Don't you believe we had better stop here?"

"These are the woods that Dave and I had just picked out," Prescott replied. "We were going to keep on traveling until we found out who owns the woods. This isn't quite in the wilderness, Tom, and we must begin again to seek permission to make our camp from owners of property."

"If these are the woods," grunted Tom, "there can be no use in going farther. You and Dave trot on ahead, and bring us back word."

"All right," sang out the young leader, "but don't drive onto the ground, or unpack, until we are back with word about the owner's permission."

Three minutes of walking brought them to a farmhouse that looked like the abode of prosperous people.

"Well, what is it?" demanded a stout man, with a good-humored face, as he stepped out from a barn.

"We wish to know, sir," Dick explained, "if you can tell us who owns the woods about a quarter of a mile back, at the right hand side of the road?"

"I think I can," nodded the man. "Will you describe the woods a little more particularly?"

As Prescott complied the farmer broke in:

"Those are my woods, all right. What do you want of them?"

Dick explained the desire of himself and his friends to camp there for the night.

"Who are you boys?" asked the farmer, keenly eyeing Dick and Dave.

"Gridley High School boys, out on a vacation jaunt."

"You won't do any damage to my woods, will you?"

"Certainly not, sir," Dick promised.

"Then go right ahead and pitch your camp, young man. Enjoy yourselves."

"We shall have to gather and use quite a bit of firewood, sir," Prescott continued.

"Well, there's considerable dead wood lying about there."

"May we pay you a proper price for the use of the firewood, sir?" Prescott went on.

"If you try to," laughed the farmer, "I'll chase you out of the woods. Make yourselves at home, boys. Have as good a time as you can."

"Thank you, sir."

"And—have you had any fresh milk lately?"

"Not a lot of it, sir."

"Would you like some?"

"Why, if we may pay——"

"You may pay me," promptly agreed the farmer, "by bringing the pail back when you pass this way in the morning."

With that remark he went into another building, soon coming out with an eight-quart pail filled with milk.

"This sort of stuff isn't much good, except when you haven't had any for a long time," laughed the farmer. "Enjoy yourselves. Say, you don't play football with the Gridley High School eleven, do you?"

"All of us do," Dick admitted.

"Thought so," chuckled the farmer. "That's why I was interested in you. I saw the Thanksgiving game at Gridley last year. Great game nervy lot of boys, with all their sand about them. There was one fellow in particular, I remember, who broke doctor's orders and jumped into the game at the last minute. He saved the game for Gridley, I heard. I'd like to shake hands with him."

"Then here's your chance, sir," laughed Dave, shoving Dick forward. "Mr. Dick Prescott, Gridley High School."

"My name's Dobbins," smiled the farmer, extending his hand. "Glad to meet you, Prescott. I thought it was you all the time. Mebbe the young man with you is Darrin."

"Yes," laughed Dick, and there was more handshaking.

"I hope I'll see the rest of your friends when you pass in the morning," said the farmer cordially.

"Hiram—supper!" called a shrill voice from The doorway.

"Coming, mother! Boys, it does one good to meet the right sort of fellows once in a while. Enjoy the woods in your own way, won't you?"

"That man is right. As he says, it does one good to meet the right sort of fellow once in a while—and he's the right sort," declared Darry fervently, as the chums trudged back to their outfit.

Camp was pitched, and supper was soon under way. When it was all over, and everything cleaned up, Dick looked about him at his friends.

"I wonder if any of you fellows feel the way I do to-night?" he asked. "We still have our white clothes, and Fenton is something of a town. We've been in the woods for so long that I feel just like dressing up in white and taking a stroll into town."

Tom, Dan and Dave voted in the affirmative. Greg and Hazy averred that they had walked enough for one day. So the four boys donned white, while the other two remained behind in flannel and khaki.

Dick and the three companions of his stroll when almost in Fenton, were passing through a street of pretty little cottages when a tiny figure, clad in white ran out of the darkness, bumping into Dick's knees.

"Hello, little one!" cried Prescott, cheerily, picking up a wee little girl of four and holding her at arm's length. "Hello, you're crying. What's the matter? Lost mother?"

"No; lost papa," wailed the little one.

"Perhaps we can find him for you," offered Tom, readily.

"Mollie! Mollie, where are you?" came a woman's voice out of the darkness.

"Is this your little girl, madam?" called Prescott. "We'll bring her to you."

In another moment the woman, young and pretty, also dressed in white, had reached the child and was holding her by the hand.

"Oh, you little runaway!" chided Dave, smilingly, as he bent over, wagging a finger at the child.

"No; it's papa that runned away," gasped the little one, in a frightened voice. "He ran away to a saloon."

"Oh, said Dave, straightening up and feeling embarrassed as he caught the humiliated look in the young woman's face.

"Pa—runned away and made mama cry," the little one babbled on, half sobbing. "I must go after him and bring him home."

"Be quiet, Mollie," commanded her mother.

"Papa comes, if he knows you want him," insisted the child. "I tell him you want him—that you cry because he went to saloon."

For an instant the mother caught her breath. Then she began to cry bitterly. Dick and his friends wished themselves almost anywhere else.

"It's too bad when the children get old enough to realize it," said the woman, brokenly. Then, of a sudden, she eyed Dick and his chums bravely.

"Boys," she said, "I hope the time will never come when you'll feel that it's manly to go out with the crowd and spend the evening in drinking."

"The way we feel about it now," spoke Dick, sympathetically, "we'd rather be dead than facing any degradation of the sort."

They were only boys, and they were strangers to the woman. Moreover, little Mollie was looking pleadingly towards Dick, as if loath to let him go. In her misery the young wife poured out her story to her sympathetic listeners. Her husband had been a fine young fellow—was still young. His drinking had begun only three months before.

"We have our own home, more than half paid for," added the woman, pointing to a pretty little cottage. "Tom has always been a good workman, never out of a job. But lately he has been spending his wages for drink. Last month we didn't make our payment on the house. Today he got his month's pay, and promised not to drink any more. He was going to take us into town to-night for a good time, and we were happy, weren't we, baby? Then two of his saloon cronies passed the house. Tom went with them, but said he would come right back for us. He hasn't come yet, and he won't come now until midnight. The month's pay will be gone, and that means that the home will be gone, after a little. Boys, I shall never see you again, and it has seemed a help to me to talk to you. Remember, don't ever——"

"Madam," asked Dick, suddenly, in a husky tone, "do you mind telling us your husband's name, and the name of the place where he has gone?"

"His name is Tom Drake, and he has gone up to Miller's place," answered Mrs. Drake. "But why do you ask? What——"

"Mrs. Drake," Dick continued, earnestly, "we don't want to be meddlers, and we'll keep out of this, if you request it. But the child has given me an inspiration that I could help you. If you authorize me, I'll go to Miller's and see if I can't help your husband to know that his happiness is right here, not in a saloon."

"I—I fear that will be a big undertaking," quivered Mrs. Drake.

A big undertaking, indeed, it was bound to be!

XIX. "I'LL FIGHT HIM FOR THIS MAN!"

"It's wonderfully kind of you!" breathed the woman, gratefully. "But it really won't do any good. When a man has begun to drink nothing can reclaim him from it. My only hope is to be able to have a talk with Tom when his money is gone."

"Of course if you dislike to have us try, Mrs. Drake——" Dick began.

"I don't dislike to have you try!" cried the woman, quickly. "All I am thinking about is the hopelessness of your undertaking. You simply can't get Tom out of Miller's to-night until the owner of that awful place turns him out at closing time. I know! This has happened before."

Dick stood in an uncertain attitude, his cap in hand. The appealing face of the child, looking eagerly up at him, made him wish with all his heart to try to do a good act here, yet he couldn't think of going on such an errand without the young wife's permission.

"Let him go, mama," urged the child. "He'll bring papa back."

Dick looked questioningly at the woman.

"All right, then, go," she acquiesced. "Oh, I hope you have good luck, and that you don't make Tom ugly, either. I'll say, for him, that he has never been ugly yet."

"Mrs. Drake, we all four accept your commission—or permission, whichever it is," replied Dick, bowing. "We'll try to use tact and judgment, and we'll try to bring Mr. Drake back with us."

Dick asked a few questions as to where Miller's place might be found. Then he set off, he and his chums walking abreast.

"Bring him back!" Mollie said plaintively. "Then mama won't cry, and I won't, either."

"I feel like a fool!" muttered Tom Reade, when they were out of earshot of the waiting mother and child.

"If you don't like the undertaking, you might keep in the background," Dick suggested.

"It's likely I'd back out of anything that's moving, isn't it?" Reade demanded, offended. "I don't mind any disagreeable business that we may run into. But I feel like a fool when I think of the message we'll have to take back to that poor woman and baby."

"Tom Drake will deliver the message to them," replied Dick, firmly.

"If he's sober even now," murmured Danny Grin, uneasily.

"I'm strong for the task!" declared Dave Darrin, with enthusiasm.

"So would I be," Tom defended himself, "if I thought that even a night of fighting would result in anything like success. But——"

"Better stop right here, then," Prescott, suggested, smiling earnestly. But neither of Dick's companions stopped.

They were walking briskly, now. As they had been told, Miller's was the first place on the right hand side, where the business street of Fenton began. It had been a tavern in the old days, and was still a big and roomy structure.

Yet there was no mistaking the room in which the object of their quest was to be found. The door of the saloon opened repeatedly while the boys stood regarding the place.

Dick stepped over to a man who had just come out.

"Is Tom Drake in there?" Dick asked.

"Yes."

"Is he sober?" Dick pressed.

"Yes; so far," answered the man.

"Will you do me a great favor? Just step inside and tell him that there is a man outside who wants to see him. Just tell him that, and nothing more."

"Are you from Drake's wife?" asked the man, looking Dick over shrewdly.

"Yes," Dick admitted, candidly.

"I'll do it," nodded the man. "Drake has been making a fool of himself. He'll go to pieces and find himself without a job before the year is out. You wait here. I'll find a way to coax him out for you."

Soon the door opened again, and there came out Prescott's messenger followed by a clean-cut, well-built young man of not more than twenty-eight years of age.

"There's the young man who says he wants to see you," the citizen explained, pointing to Dick.

Tom Drake walked steadily enough. He certainly was not yet much under the influence of liquor.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, looking somewhat puzzled as he eyed young Prescott.

"Yes," Dick admitted.

"What about?"

"Will you take a short walk with me," Dick went on, "and I'll explain my business to you."

"I don't believe I can take a walk with you," Drake answered. "I'm with some friends in there."

He nodded over his shoulder at the door through which he had just come.

"But my business is of a great deal of importance," Dick went on.

"Can't you see me to-morrow?" asked Drake, eager to get back to his companions.

"To-morrow will be altogether too late," Dick replied.

"Then state your business now."

"I'd much rather explain it you as you walk with me," Prescott urged, earnestly.

"Are—are you from the building loan people?" asked Tom Drake, suddenly.

"No, I am not from them," Prescott replied, then added, truthfully enough: "But it's partly about that building loan matter that I wish to talk with you."

"Who sent you here?" asked Drake, half-suspiciously.

"A child," Dick replied. "At least, it was a child's face that gave me the resolution to come here and have a few words with you."

"A child?" repeated Drake. "What child?"

"Yours."

"A child?" echoed the young man. "Mine? Do you mean Mollie?"

"Yes," Dick went on, rapidly. "The child wanted to come here herself to get you, and I came in her stead. It was better that I should come than that little tot. Don't you think so?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand you," returned Tom Drake, beginning to look offended.

"Mr. Drake, do you know that your wife and child are all dressed up—in their prettiest white gowns, waiting for you to come back to bring them into town to-night for the promised treat? Don't you understand the pain that you're giving them by showing that you prefer a lot of red-nosed loafers in Miller's to your own wife and child? The unhappiness that you're causing them to-night isn't a circumstance to all the misery that you're piling up for them in the years to come. Switch off! Switch off, while you're yet man enough to be able to do it! Won't you do it—please? You must know just how happy that little kid will be when she sees you come swinging down the street to bring her and her mother into town. You know how that little tot's eyes will shine. Can't you hear her saying, `Here's papa! He's come.' Isn't that baby worth a twenty-mile walk for any man to see when he knows she's his own kiddie and waiting for him? Come along, now; they're both waiting for you; they will be the happiest pair you've seen in a long time."

"I don't know but I will toddle along home," said Drake, rather shame-facedly. "I—I didn't realize how time was slipping by. Yes; I guess I'll go home. Much obliged to you for letting me know the time."

But at that moment the door opened, and a voice called out:

"Drake! Oh, Drake. Come here; we want you."

"Can't, now," the young man called back. "I'm due at home."

"Home?" came in two or three jeering voices.

Then several men came out of the saloon, laughing boisterously.

"Come back, Drake! We can't let you slip off like that. You're too good a fellow to play the sneak with us. Come on back!"

"I—I tell you, I'm due at home," insisted Drake, though he spoke more weakly.

"Hey! Here's Drake—says he's going to slip home on us!" called one of the tormentors.

More men came out of the place, some of them staggering. With the new arrivals came one whom Dick and his friends rightly guessed to be Miller—a thickset man, with swaggering manner, insolent expression and rough voice.

"What's this about your going home, Drake?" demanded one of the new arrivals.

"I—I really ought to go home," Drake tried to explain.

"Cut that out," ordered Miller roughly. "You're booked to spend the evening with us, and the evening has hardly begun."

"I promised this young fellow I'd go home," said Drake slowly, "so I guess I will."

"And what has this young feller got to say or do about it?" demanded Miller angrily, as He pushed his way to Drake's side, then glared at Dick Prescott.

"And what have you got to say about his not going home?" Dick asked hotly. "Isn't this a free country, where a man may go home when he chooses?"

"It's a free country, and a man has a right to spend his evening in my place when he's invited," Miller asserted roughly.

"Yes; your invitation will hold until his month's pay is gone from his pocket," Dick flashed back. "That's all you want. Drake has sense enough to see that, and he's leaving you."

"He isn't going home for three hours yet, or anywhere else!" snorted Miller, whose breath proclaimed the fact that he had been using some of his own goods.

Dick laughed contemptuously as he turned to Tom Drake with:

"You see! That fellow thinks he can give you your orders. That fellow begins to believe that he owns you already."

"Who are you calling 'that feller'?" demanded Miller, dropping a heavy hand on Dick's shoulder.

"I referred to you," replied Prescott, pushing the man's hand from his shoulder.

"If you get too funny with me I'll hit you a crack that will carry your head off with it!" snarled the saloon keeper.

"Pshaw!" Prescott answered cuttingly. "You aren't big enough, or man enough, either!"

"What's that?"

Miller aimed a vicious, open-hand blow at young Prescott's face. It didn't land, but, instead, Dick's right hand went up smack! against the fellow's cheek.

"Hang your impudence!" roared Miller, angrily. "I'll pay you for that! I'll teach you!"

He made a rush at Dick, but two men who had been attracted by the commotion jumped in between them.

"Hold on, Miller!" objected one of these passers-by. "You can't pummel a boy!"

"I'll make him howl for hitting me!" roared Miller, doubling his big, powerful fists. "Get out of my way, or I'll run over you!"

"Get out of his way, please!" cried Dick suddenly. "Let Miller at me, if he wants. I'm willing to fight him. I'll fight him for Tom Drake's right to be a man!"

XX. IN THE MILKSOP CLASS?

"Good! And I'll hold the stakes!" cried Tom Reade jovially, as he took light hold of Drake's arm.

"Let Miller at the boy!" howled one of the bystanders. "He'll show the boy something. The kid is getting big enough to learn, and he ought to be taught."

"I'll fight Miller, if he has the sand!" proclaimed Dick, who now had his own reasons for wanting to sting the liquor seller into action. "I'll fight the bully, but not here in a saloon yard. There is a vacant lot the other side of the fence. We'll go in there and see how much of a fighter he is."

More citizens had gathered by this time, and there was every sign of an intention to stop further trouble. But Dave Darrin sprang into the crowd, saying, almost in an undertone:

"The respectable men here don't want to try to stop this affair. A lot of useful manhood depends upon the issue. Don't worry about my friend, if he does look rather young. He can take care of himself, all right, and he is calling for a fight that ought to be fought. You respectable men in the crowd keep still, and just come along and see fair play—that's all."

Dave's earnest eloquence won over many of the men representing the better element of the crowd.

"Jove! He's a plucky boy!" cried one man.

"But Miller will pound him to a pulp!"

"Come along, everyone, and see whether rum or water is the best drink for fighting men!" insisted Tom Reade.

There was a general movement toward the vacant lot. Miller was muttering angrily, while some of his red-nosed victims were jeering.

In the field Dick took off his hat and coat, then his tie, and passed them to Dan Dalzell.

"Dave," whispered Prescott, "you stand by as my second, but don't make any too stiff claims of foul. This will have to be rough work, from the start."

Miller, already in his shirt sleeves, did not feel that he had any need of special preparation. Prescott looked altogether too easy. Not that Miller lacked experience in such matters. In other years he had been a prize-fighter of minor rank, and had been considered, in his class, a fairly hard man to beat.

"Now, stand up, boy," ordered the saloon keeper, advancing. "And take back the crack you passed to me."

"Let's have it," taunted Dick, throwing himself on the defensive.

Miller aimed a vicious blow but did not land. Instead, Prescott hit him on the short ribs.

"If you're going to fight, stand up and take your medicine!" roared Miller, in a rage.

"Handle your own foot-work to suit yourself!" Dick retorted. "I'll do the same. But you can't fight, anyway!"

That taunt threw the liquor seller into a still greater rage. With a yell he sprang at Prescott. But again Dick failed to be there.

The high school boy was not having an easy time, however. Miller's strength was formidable, and Dick knew that he could not stop many straight blows from his opponent without disaster.

Two merely glancing blows scraped the lad, who had landed four blows on Miller. The big fellow, however, seemed able to endure a lot of punishment.

"I didn't come out here to run a race!" Miller insisted, as he tried hard to corner the boy.

"Then stand still, and I won't hit you so hard!" mocked Prescott, as he struck the man again on the short ribs.

Then, of a sudden, Prescott hit the earth. He had miscalculated, and Miller's left fist had landed on his nose.

With a hoarse laugh Miller started to follow up the advantage with a kick.

"Here! Come back! None of that!" shouted a citizen, throwing his arms around Miller's neck. "Let the boy get to his feet. Fight fair or—we'll lynch you when it's over!"

But Dick was up, the blood flowing freely from his nose. Yet he was hardly less cool as Miller was released and the two again faced each other.

"Finish him up, Miller, and we'll get back to pleasure!" laughed one of the drunkards in maudlin glee.

"The boy has no show. This is an outrage!" protested an indignant citizen. "It ought to be stopped."

As the two sparred Dick suddenly saw his chance to get in under the powerful guard of his antagonist and landed a hard blow on his solar plexus.

"Umph!" grunted Miller, as he partly doubled up under the force of the blow.

That instant was enough for Prescott to drive in a blow that nearly closed one of the big fellow's eyes.

"Stop this fight!" yelled the same citizen.

"Don't you do it!" warned another. "The boy is taking care of himself all right. Let him wind the bruiser up."

Now Miller, smarting and fearing accidental defeat, forgot caution and tried to rush in for a clinch. But this was the kind of attack that Prescott was skilled in dodging.

Dick gave ground before the furious assault, but he did so purposely. Back he went, step by step.

"Miller's got him!" cheered the liquor seller's friends.

At last Dick found what he wanted, the opportunity to drive in again on the big fellow's wind. Miller gave vent to another grunt, followed by a howl, as he felt a stinging fist land against his other eye.

Now, Dick had his man blinded, ready for the finish. A high school fist landed on the side of the big fellow's throat, sending him to his knees. Dick took but half a step backward as he waited for the big fellow to get to his feet. The instant that Miller rose Dick darted in, landing his right fist with all his strength on the tip of the man's chin.

This time the work was complete. Miller went down. Dick, smiling, though breathing quickly, stood over his fallen opponent, counting slowly to ten.

Then, in a moment, those who had favored the boy's side in the fight realized just what had happened.

Loud cheers arose from the crowd. Tom Drake was one of the first to dart in and seize young Prescott's right hand briefly before another man wanted to shake it. Dick was fairly made to run a gauntlet of handshaking.

Most of Miller's "friends" retreated in sulky bad humor. Three of the liquor seller's followers, however, picked the big man up, staggering under his weight, and bore him behind the door that had closed on more than one man's career.

"What do you think of that, Mr. Drake?" demanded Tom Reade jubilantly. "Do you put Dick Prescott in the milk-sop class?"

XXI. THE REVENGE TALK AT MILLER'S

"Let's get out of this place," whispered Dick in Dave's ear as Darry helped him to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

"There, the bleeding has stopped," muttered Dave. "Now, put on your coat and button it up. Then the blood stains on your shirt won't show."

Tom Drake had very little to say, but he kept close to Prescott.

"Shall we walk down the road a bit, Mr. Drake?" asked Dick, as soon as he had his coat on.

"I'm in a hurry to get home," nodded the young workman. "I shall know where I belong, after this. No more of Miller's for me! For that matter," the young man added, with a hearty laugh, "I don't believe Miller would ever let me in his place again. Of course, in his own mind, he will blame me for what happened to-night."

"I hope he didn't get much of your money before it happened," murmured Prescott, as be and Drake, followed by Dave, Tom and Dan, got clear of the crowd and down into a quieter part of the road.

"He got less than a dollar of my wages," replied Drake. "I'm sorry he has that much, but he'll never get any more. Say, Prescott, but you are a fighter! I can imagine how 'sore' Miller will be, to-morrow, over having been whipped by such a stripling as you are."

"I've one great advantage over Miller," Dick rejoined. "I've never tasted alcohol, and Miller has saturated himself with it for years."

"I used to have an idea that liquor was strengthening," murmured Tom Drake. "I know quite a good many men who take it to keep up their strength."

"They're fools, then," Dick retorted tersely. "You could see, in Miller to-night, what alcohol does toward making one strong. That man is still powerful, but I'm satisfied that he was once a great deal stronger. Miller's muscles have grown flabby since he began to drink. His speed is less than it must have been formerly. Even his nerve—his grit—has been impaired by the stuff he has been drinking. Did you notice how early in the fight his wind left him? The man has very little of his former strength, and the blame belongs to the liquor he has used."

"Here's my gate," said Tom Drake, at last, as they halted before the little cottage. "Come in. I've got to tell my wife about you. I wonder where my two girls are?"

Dick and his friends tried to get out of going into the yard, but their new friend would not have it that way, so silently they followed Drake up the path. Then, through a front window, Tom Drake saw his girls.

His wife sat at a table, her head resting on her arms. On the floor sat the toddler, Mollie, still in her white dress. She had two broken dolls, pretending to play with them, but the woebegone look in her little face showed that her thoughts were elsewhere.

Tom Drake choked as he looked in at the window. Then, throwing up his head resolutely, he lifted the latch, entering the room with firm tread.

"I'm a bit late, girls, but come on up in the village!" he invited. "Here, Hattie, you take charge of this little roll," he added, thrusting his money into his wife's hand.

Not more than three minutes later the three Drakes issued from the house, Mollie enjoying a "ride" on her father's shoulder.

"Why, where are the boys?" he demanded. "I left them here."

"Gone, like all good angels, when their work is done," smiled his wife.

"It's all right, anyway, girls," Tom Drake answered cheerily. "We're pretty sure to find 'em up in the village, where we're going."

In the first place that the Drakes entered they came upon Dick and his three friends. The Gridley boys, after dodging a crowd that wanted to lionize young Prescott, had taken refuge, unseen, in the back of an otherwise deserted ice cream saloon.

"There they are!" cried Mollie, running the length of the shop, as fast as her chubby little legs could take her. She ran straight to Dick who bent over to give her a gentle hug.

"I don't know what to say to you young men," cried Mrs. Drake, halting beside the boys, her voice breaking a little, her eyes moist.

"Then, if you'll permit me to offer a suggestion," Dick smiled back, as he rose, "it seems to me that conversation might spoil several good things. Won't you all sit down and be our guests in a little ice cream feast that we have started?"

It was almost an hour before the little party broke up. A few interested citizens, however, found the hiding place of the Gridley High School boys and insisted on coming in to shake hands with the boys.

"Take your family and slip out through the back door," Dick whispered to Tom Drake.

"I don't know that I'll ever see you again," murmured Drake huskily, "so I want to say——"

"Don't say anything," Dick smiled back. "You're all right, from now on. And we've all learned something to-night. We'll let it rest there. Good-bye, and the best of good luck for you and yours."

So the Drakes escaped from what would have been an embarrassing scene. Nor were Dick and his friends long in getting away from the too-enthusiastic citizens.

"It's late enough for us to go back to camp and turn in, isn't it?" suggested Tom Reade.

"I was thinking of that myself," Dick admitted.

"You must be tired, anyway," Dave hinted. "You whipped Miller all right, but he was a tiring brute, and I'll wager that you're both sore and exhausted."

"I'll plead guilty to a little bit of both," Dick Prescott assented, laughing at the recollection of Miller at the time when that brute's second eye was closed.

Yet it was more than half an hour after their return to camp when slumber finally began to assert its claim upon the Gridley boys. For Greg and Harry, as soon as they had heard a few words as to the evening's adventure, insisted upon hearing all of it before they would let Dick turn in.

"I'll bet they're sore in Miller's place tonight," chuckled Greg, just before be extinguished the second lantern.

Certainly anger did reign in Miller's place for the rest of that evening.

Miller had been brought to consciousness, after considerable effort. He was even able to be up and about his place, but his swollen features looked like a caricature of a face.

"The schoolboy that was able to do that to you, Miller, must have been eight feet high and as wide as a gate," remarked one of the red-nosed patrons of the place.

"Shut up!" was Miller's gracious response.

There were other drinking places in Fenton, and to these the news of the big fellow's drubbing quickly spread.

Indeed, the fight seemed to be the one topic of the talk of Fenton that evening.

As it happened, it wasn't very long before word was brought to Miller that Dick and his friends were camping down on Andy Hartshorn's place.

"It's queer that Hartshorn will let such young toughs stop on his land!" growled Miller.

"They ought to be chased out of town—that's what!" growled a patron of the place.

More of this talk was heard, until finally someone demanded thickly:

"Well, why can't we chase 'em out of town?"

At first, the idea met with instant favor among the dozen or more worthless men gathered in Miller's saloon. The plan grew in favor until one man, slighter than the rest, observed:

"Say! Stop and think of one thing. We know what one of the boys did to Miller, and there are six of those boys down at the camp!"

That rather cast a damper over the enthusiasm until one blear-eyed man of fifty observed, knowingly:

"Well, we don't need to go alone. There are other men in Fenton who think the way we do. We can go down to the woods in force, and pretend that what we want to do comes as a rebuke administered by the citizens of Fenton."

"Hurrah!" cheered one man who seemed in danger of falling asleep.

"Miller, let us use your telephone," urged the former speaker.

"No, you can't," retorted the liquor seller quickly. "It's all right for you men to do whatever you think is right, but you've got to remember that I've got to be kept out of whatever happens."

Well enough did the wretch know that half-hearted opposition from him would only fan the flame hotter among the men who considered themselves his friends.

So the messengers were sent to the other drinking places in town. Word was passed for a night raid "by representative citizens," as these topers called themselves.

Men of the same turn of mind soon came flocking in from other drinking resorts.

"Don't talk here about what you're going to do for the good of the town," Miller ordered. "Remember, I've got to be kept out of this. My position is a delicate one, you understand."

Soon after midnight the disreputable army of vengeance seekers was straggling down the road. Talking had ceased. These drink-driven wretches were hunting for the camp of Dick & Co. and they were going to attack it in force.

XXII. UNDER THE STING OF THE LASH

When the crowd reached the camp of the high school boys all was silent there. From within the tent came the sounds of the heavy breathing of the sleepers.

"Everything is ready, and there isn't even a dog on the place!" was the exultant word passed back.

"Bunch up! Get in close and surround the tent," ordered another voice. "We want some of you men behind the tent, so that none of the youngsters can slip away from us. Come along, now. Don't talk! Don't make so much noise. Easy, now!"

Thus the figures continued to gather, like so many evil spirits of the night.

Here and there one of the rabble fell over something in the dark, or tripped over a root or stone as he moved about among the shadows.

In the intervals of absolute silence the steady breathing of the six Gridley High School boys could still be heard, until one man in the rabble, less sober than the others, fell over a packing-case, barking his shins and giving vent to a yell of pain.

"What was that?" asked Greg Holmes, waking and rising on one elbow.

Outside all was quiet again.

"Hey, Dave, get up!" Holmes called, shaking the arm of Darry, who lay asleep on the adjoining cot. "I heard something going on outside. We'll both get up, light a lantern, and——"

"Yes! Get up and come out!" jeered a voice near the tent door. "Come out and have a look at us. The reputable citizens of Fenton are to chase you out of town—and we'll do it, after we get through with teaching you manners!"

"Fellows! Hustle!" shouted Greg, leaping from his cot. "Get ready for trouble. All the topers and loafers who ever knew Miller are outside to avenge the beating that Miller received from Dick!"

"We'll show you!" came a hoarse yell, and then the foremost ruffians in the crowd surged in through the tent door.

But Dave had succeeded in lighting a lantern, and this he took time to hang from a hook on the nearest pole.

Five boys clad only in their pajamas faced this angry rabble. Dan Dalzell slept through the confusion until Reade, in passing him, hauled him from bed.

"What are you men doing here?" thundered Reade, striding to the head of the little group of defenders.

Dick was now beside him like a flash.

"You fellows get out of here!" Prescott ordered, his eyes flaming.

"We'll get out when we get ready!" came the hoarse answer. "Now, friends, show these young imps——"

But that speaker got no further, for a blow from Tom's fist brought him to the ground.

All six of Dick & Co. were now on the fistic firing line.

For a few moments they carried all but consternation to their opponents. As they were forced back from the doorway, however, more and more of the mob poured in.

The very weight of numbers was bound to count against Dick & Co. who were likely to suffer severely at the hands of the miscreants.

Just then there came a flash across the canvas of the tent. The light had been thrown by a swiftly-moving automobile. There was another automobile directly behind it. Both cars came to a stop at the roadside, while from them leaped more than a dozen men.

These men were armed—each with a horsewhip. In an instant the invaders found them selves assailed from behind.

Whish! slash! zip!

In another instant all was uproar. Yells of pain from the mob rent the air, for these latest arrivals were laying about them with their horsewhips with an energy worthy of a good cause.

"Here, you, Andy Hartshorn. Stop that! Don't you hit me! I know you, and I'll have the law on you!" shrieked one of the frightened wretches.

"He who goes to law should have his own hands clean," quoth Farmer Hartshorn, as he dealt the fellow a stinging blow on the legs.

Those of the crowd outside the tent fled in every direction, hotly pursued, and again and again they were stung by the lashes.

Those of the invaders still in the tent were now in a panic to get out and away. As they dashed through the doorway they felt the slashing of horsewhips, while Dick Prescott and his chums hammered them from the rear.

In less than thirty seconds the invaders had been cleared away. They fled in screaming panic, scattering in all directions, some of them being pursued and lashed for a distance of many rods up or down the road.

On all sides the fleeing wretches threatened their persecutors with the law, but these threats did not stop the punishment.

"I guess it's all right now, boys!" called Farmer Hartshorn grimly, as he strode up to the place where Dick & Co. had gathered just beyond their tent.

"What was that mob, anyway?" Dick asked.

"A gang that came after revenge for what you did to Miller to-night," laughed the farmer.

"I thought as much," muttered Dick.

"They've been gathering at Miller's, and other like places, for a couple of hours," Mr. Hartshorn went on. "But, as is the case with all such movements, some news of it leaked outside. We got word a bit late, or we'd have been here before that crowd came along. When we knew the word was straight some of us telephoned to others, and our crowd was gotten together, but as it is, we got here in season. Are any of you boys hurt?"

"No, sir; not one of us," Dick declared. "But some of us might have been seriously injured if you gentlemen had been delayed for another minute."

"We'll know the rascals to-morrow," spoke up another of the rescuers. "If they appear on the streets at all they'll be recognized. We have marked them up pretty well. They've gone off vowing to have the law on us."

"All they'll do will be to put arnica on themselves," declared Mr. Hartshorn. "And they will send friends to the drugstore for the arnica. They won't take the risk of being recognized on the streets. They'll be a shame-faced lot in the morning."

"It was mighty good of you men to come down and help us out," murmured Dick Prescott gratefully. "We would have had a pretty tough time if we had been left to ourselves."

"We'd go further than we've traveled tonight, to help out boys like you," declared another man present. "Prescott, that was a fine thing you did to Miller to-night, and Tom Drake will be grateful as long as he lives."

"If Drake keeps away from drink in the future," Dick answered, "he will have reason to congratulate himself."

"Oh, Drake will keep away from the stuff after this," said one of the citizens. "Young Drake has a head of his own, and we'll see that he uses it. We'll keep a friendly eye over him. Don't worry. Young Tom Drake will never associate with any of Miller's kind again."

"Whenever any of you boys want to go to sleep, just say so," urged Mr. Hartshorn, "and we'll run along."

"Why, I believe we're a bit waked up, at present," smiled young Prescott, as he turned to glance at the others in the light thrown by the automobile lamps.

"I don't feel as though I needed any more sleep," laughed Tom Reade.

"If you boys are thinking of sitting up to watch against another surprise, don't bother about it," advised Mr. Hartshorn. "You've seen the very last that you'll see of those rascals. Men of that sort never have nerve enough to attempt a risky thing twice."

"I'm going to put some wood in the stove and make coffee," Danny Grin announced.

"Can't we offer you a cup of coffee, gentlemen?" proposed Prescott. "And sandwiches? We have plenty of the fixings for sandwiches."

The idea prevailed to such an extent that Dalzell put on a kettle of water to boil, while Tom and Dave began to slice bread and open tinned meats.

"I'm going to sit down on the ground and be comfortable," declared one of the Fentonites, when coffee and food were passed around.

"Do you know, gentlemen," said Tom Reade, as he munched a sandwich, "I'm beginning to like Fenton next to our own town of Gridley."

"Fenton isn't anywhere near as large a place as Gridley," replied one of the guests.

"No; but for its size Fenton is a lively place," Reade went on. "There seems to be something happening here every minute."

"That is when young fellows like you come along and start the ball rolling," chuckled Farmer Hartshorn. "There has been more excitement to-night in Fenton than I can remember during the last five years. I've seen you play football, Prescott, and you're a wonder at the game. Yet what you did to-night for young Tom Drake is a bigger thing than winning a whole string of the greatest football games of the year."

"Football is more exciting, though," smiled Dick.

"Is it?" demanded Mr. Hartshorn. "More exciting than what you've been through tonight? Then I'll never play football! More excitement than you've had to-night isn't healthful for any growing young fellow!"

For fully an hour these men of Fenton remained at the camp, talking with their young hosts, and, incidentally, picking up a lot of information about the sports and pastimes that most interest wide-awake boys of to-day.

At last, however, disclaiming the thanks offered by Dick & Co., the guests went away in the automobiles that had brought them, while Dick Prescott and his chums prepared to finish out the night's rest.

XXIII. TIMMY, THE GENTLEMAN, AT HOME

"Oh, won't life seem stale when we get back into the land of crowded business streets and schoolhouses?" grumbled Reade, as, perched on the seat of the camp wagon, he drove out onto the highway the next morning, followed by the other members of Dick & Co. on foot.

"No, sir!" Darry retorted. "Life won't seem stale on that account. Instead, it will be brightened by the pleasant recollection of this summer's fun, which is now so soon to be ended."

"You're not going through Fenton, are you, Dick?" asked Greg.

"I guess we'll have to. We were pretty well cleaned out of some of our provisions last night. We shall have to replenish our food supply, and Fenton is the only real town along our route to-day. The rest are small farming villages."

"But we'll attract a lot of attention," declared Holmes.

"You won't," laughed Darry. "You didn't go to town with us last night, and consequently you're not known there."

"I'd rather not go through the town myself," Dick explained, "but it seems to me that as long as we must purchase supplies we ought to make a stop in the town that's likely to have the best stores."

Fenton's principal street had rather a sleepy look this hot August morning. There were but few people abroad as Dick & Co. turned into the main thoroughfare.

At Miller's place there was not a sign of life. "I'll wager that brute is applying raw beef to his eyes this morning," muttered Tom, somewhat vindictively.

Prescott's watchful glance soon discovered a provision store that looked more than usually promising. At a word from him Tom reined in the horse, while Prescott and Darrin went inside to make purchases.

When they came out they found Farmer Hartshorn and another man talking with Tom Reade.

"You young men of Gridley don't look any the worse, this morning, for the excitement you had last night," said Mr. Hartshorn, after a cordial greeting. "Reade tells me that you left the milk-pail at my house as you came along."

"Yes, sir," Dick nodded. "And with it, we left our very best thanks for the fine treat that milk proved to be to us."

"Prescott, shake hands with Mr. Stark. He's our leading lawyer in this little place."

"I've heard a good deal about you this morning," said the lawyer, as he shook hands.

Mr. Stark was a tall, thin man, of perhaps forty-five years of age. Warm as was the day he was attired wholly in black, a bit rusty, and wore a high silk hat that was beginning to show signs of age. He belonged to a type of rural lawyer that is now passing.

"I think we've heard of you, too," smiled Prescott innocently.

"Have you?" asked the lawyer, looking somewhat astonished.

"Yes," Dick went on. "I think it must have been your letter that Mr. Reuben Hinman showed us one day. It was in regard to a bill he had given you to collect. Mr. Hinman is in the hospital and must need quite a bit of money just at present so I beg to express the hope that you have been able to collect the other half of the debt—the half that belongs to him."

Lawyer Stark reddened a good deal, despite his sallow skin.

"Why, what about that other half? What's the story?" questioned Mr. Hartshorn, his eyes, twinkling as though he scented something amusing.

"Oh—er—just a matter of business between a client and myself," the lawyer explained, in some confusion.

"And poor old Hinman was the client, eh?" asked the farmer.

"We don't know very much about the matter," Dave Darrin broke in, a trifle maliciously, for he fell that it might be a good thing to show up this lawyer's tricky work. "Mr. Hinman gave Mr. Stark a bill of twenty dollars to collect, and——"

"It was—er—all a matter of business between a client and myself, and therefore of a confidential nature," Lawyer Stark broke in, reddening still more.

But Dave was in no mood, just then, to be headed off so easily, so he went on:

"Mr. Hinman showed us the letter, and asked us what we thought of it, so that rather broke the confidential nature of the matter. You see," turning to Mr. Hartshorn, "the bill was for twenty dollars, and it seems that. Mr. Stark was to have half for his trouble in collecting it. Now the letter that Mr. Hinman showed us——"

"I protest, young man!" exclaimed the lawyer.

"The letter," Darry went on calmly, "was to the effect that Mr. Stark had collected his own half of the twenty dollars, and that the collection of Mr. Hinman's half of the money seemed doubtful."

"Now, now, Stark!" exclaimed the farmer, looking sharply at the lawyer. "Surely, that isn't your way of doing business with a poor and aged client like Hinman!"

"I have collected the remainder of the bill, and am going to mail a settlement to Mr. Hinman to-day," muttered the lawyer, trying to look unconcerned. "All just a matter of routine office business, Mr. Hartshorn."

But the lawyer felt wholly uncomfortable. He was thinking, at that moment, that he would heartily enjoy kicking Darrin if the latter didn't look so utterly healthy and uncommonly able to take care of himself.

"Do I hear you discussing money that is due my father?" inquired a voice behind them. "If so, my father is very ill, as you doubtless know, and I would take pleasure in receiving the money on his behalf."

Timothy Hinman, looking wholly the man of fashion, made this offer. He had come up behind the group, and there was a look in his eyes which seemed to say that the handling of some of the family money would not be distasteful to him just then.

"I'll walk along with you to your office, Mr. Stark, and receipt for the money, if you're headed that way," suggested the younger Hinman again.

"Unless you hold a regular power of attorney from your father, you could hardly give me a valid receipt," replied the lawyer sourly, as he turned away from Mr. Hartshorn and the boys and started down the street.

"Won't my receipt do until my father is up and about once more?" pressed Timothy Hinman.

"No, sir; it won't," snapped the lawyer.

"Have you heard, this morning, how your father is?" Dick inquired.

"Just heard, at the post-office," Hinman answered. "My father had a very bad day yesterday. Er—in fact, the chances, I am sorry to say, appear to be very much against his recovery."

"He must feel the strain of his father's illness," observed Dave sarcastically.

"He does!" retorted Mr. Hartshorn, with emphasis. "If old Reuben dies young Timothy must go to work for a living. The disgrace of toil will almost kill him. His two sisters are as bad as he is. They've never done a stroke of work, either. All three have lived on the poor old peddler's earnings all their lives, though not one of the three would be willing to keep the old man's house for him. There are a lot of sons and daughters like them to-day. Perhaps there always have been."

Mr. Hartshorn waited until Dick and Dave had finished with the purchases and had loaded them on the wagon.

Then the farmer shook hands with each member of Dick & Co.

"I'm coming up to Gridley to see the football game this Thanksgiving," he promised. "I hope I'll see as good a game as I did last year. Anyway, I'll see the work of a mighty fine lot of young fellows."

Prescott expressed again the heartiest thanks of himself and friends for the timely aid given them during the trouble in camp.

"We've lost so much time this morning that we'll have to hustle for the rest of the day," Tom called down from the wagon seat, as he started the horse.

An hour later they were more than three miles past Fenton.

"Get out of the way, Tom!" called Dave. "Drive up into someone's yard like lightning. Here comes a whizz wagon that wants the whole highway."

Behind them, its metal trimmings flashing in the sun, and leaving a trail of dust in its wake, came an automobile traveling at least sixty miles an hour.

Yet, fast as the car was going when it passed them, the speed did not prevent one occupant from recognizing them and calling out derisively. Then, half a mile ahead, the car stopped, turned, and came slowly back toward the wondering Gridley boys.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

Five rather contemptuous pairs of youthful eyes surveyed Dick & Co. as their outfit plodded on its way.

"Aren't they a mucker looking outfit?" demanded one voice from the car.

Then the automobile shot ahead again.

"Phin Drayne! Humph!" said Darry rather scornfully.

Phin Drayne is no stranger to the readers of the "High School Boys Series," who will recall Phin as the "kicker" who, at the game on the Thanksgiving before, had sulked and refused to go on the field, hoping to induce the other members of the Gridley High School gridiron team to coax him to play. Thus Dick, though suffering at that time from injuries, and forbidden to play, had been forced out onto the field to help win the great game of the season. Of course a kicker like Drayne did not like Prescott. Dick worried but little on that account.

"There! they are coming back," Greg announced. "They are grinning at us again."

"If they keep on grinning," threatened Darry, "we'll sic Danny Grin onto them. When it comes to grinning our own Danny boy can grin down anything on earth."

As if to verify that claim, Dalzell began to grin broadly. Besides this, he turned his face toward the occupants of the automobile as it once more passed Dick & Co.

Just at this point the car slowed down. Phin Drayne looked as though he were exhibiting his fellow students of Gridley High School as so many laughable freaks.

"That's what I call a vacation on the cheap," Drayne remarked to his friends, in a tone wholly audible to Dick & Co.

"It is 'on the cheap,'" Dick called out pleasantly. "And yet, our trip hasn't been such a very cheap one, either, and we've earned all the money ourselves. I don't suppose, Drayne, you ever earned as much money in your life."

"I don't have to," scoffed Phin Drayne. "My father is able to supply me with whatever money I need."

"Why!" uttered Dan Dalzell. "Our old Drayne is just another Timmy Hinman of the regular kind, isn't he?"

Dan looked so comical when he made this observation that his five chums burst into a shout of gleeful laughter.

Phin Drayne didn't relish that very sincere laughter. Though he didn't understand the allusion, he suspected that he was being made the butt of a joke by Dick & Co.

"Drive on, George," he requested his friend at the wheel. "One hates to be seen in the company of such fellows."

The car's speed was let out several notches, and shot down the road ahead of Dick & Co.'s plain little caravan.

"Now that I think of it," Dick declared, "Phin is just another edition of Timmy Hinman, isn't he? And so are quite a good many of the fellows we know. The world must be nearly as full of Timmy Hinmans as it is of fathers either wealthy or well-to-do. I'd hate to belong to the Timmy Hinman crowd!"

"As for me," sighed Tom comically, "I don't see any chance of my becoming a Timmy until I'm able to do it on money accumulated for myself."

As Phin Drayne was still in Gridley High School, and had an overweening idea of himself as a football player, it is extremely likely that we shall hear of him again, for which reason, if for no other, we may as well dismiss him from these present pages.

A few more days of earnest hiking, followed by restful sleep in camp at night, brought Dick & Co., one fine afternoon toward the end of August, in sight of the spires of Gridley.

"There's the good old town!" called Dick, first to reach the rise of ground from which the view of Gridley was to be had.

"Good old town, indeed!" glowed Dave Darrin.

"Whoop!" shouted Tom Reade irrepressibly. "Whoop! And then—whoop!"

Dalzell, as he stood still for a few moments, gazing ahead, grinned broadly.

"He thinks his native town is a joke!" called Greg Holmes reproachfully.

"No," replied Dalzell, with a solemn shake of his head. "I am the joke, and it's on Gridley for being my native town."

"I'm glad to be back—when I get there," announced Hazy. "I shall be glad, even if for nothing more than the chance to rest my feet."

"Nonsense!" Dick retorted. "You'll be out on Main Street, to-night, ready to tramp miles and miles, if anything amusing turns up."

At the first shade by the roadside Dick &. Co. halted for fifteen minutes to rest.

"Now, each one of you do a little silent thinking," Prescott urged.

"Give us the topic, then," proposed Reade.

"Fellows," Dick went on, mounting a stump and thrusting one hand inside his flannel shirt, in imitation of the pose of an orator, "the next year will be an eventful one for all of us. In that time we shall wind up our courses at the Gridley High School. From the day that we set forth from Gridley High School we shall be actively at work creating our careers. We are destined to become great men, everyone of us!"

"Tell that to the Senate!" mocked Tom Reade.

"Well, then," Dick went on, accepting the doubt of their future greatness, "we shall, at least, if we are worth our salt, become useful men in the world, and I don't know but that is very close to being great. For the man who isn't useful in the world has no excuse for living. Now, in a little more than another hour, we shall be treading the pavements of good old Gridley. Let us do it with a sense of triumph."

"Triumph?" quizzed Tom soberly. "What about?"

"The sense of triumph," Dick retorted, "will arise from the fact that this is to be the last and biggest year in which we are to give ourselves the final preparation for becoming either great or useful men. I'm not going to say any more on this subject. Perhaps you fellows think I've been talking nonsense on purpose. I haven't. Neither have I tried to preach to you, for preaching is out of my line. But, fellows, I hope you all feel, as solemnly as I do myself, just what this next year must mean to us in work, in study—in a word, in achievement. It won't do any of us any harm, once in a while to feel solemn, for five seconds at a time, over what we are going to do this year to assure our futures."

For once Tom Reade didn't have a jest ready. For once Dalzell forgot to grin.

The march was taken up again. The next halt was made in Gridley, thus ending their long training hike, the boys going to their respective homes.

"Just give three silent cheers, and we won't startle anyone," Tom proposed.

"We went out on the trip to harden ourselves," murmured Dave, "and I must admit that we have all done it."

That evening Dick and Harry Hazelton drove the horse and wagon over to Tottenville, where the camp wagon was returned to its owner, Mr. Newbegin Titmouse.

"You young men have worn this wagon quite: a bit," whined Mr. Titmouse, after he had painstakingly inspected the wagon by the light of a lantern.

"I think we've brought it back in fine condition, sir," replied Dick, and he spoke the truth. "The wagon looks better, Mr. Titmouse, than you had expected to see it."

"You owe me about five dollars for extra wear and tear," insisted the money-loving Mr. Titmouse.

But he didn't get the money. Again Dick Prescott turned out to be an excellent business man. Dick was most courteous, but he refuted all of Mr. Titmouse's claims for extra payment, in the end even such a money-grubber as Mr. Newbegin Titmouse gave up the effort to extort more money for the use of his wagon than was his due. He even used his lantern to light the boys through the dark side alley to the street where the trolley car ran.

Two or three times after this Dick and his friends heard from Tom Drake. That young workman never repeated his earlier error. In time he paid for his home, then began the saving of money for other purposes. To-day Drake owns his own machine shop and is highly prosperous.

Old Reuben Hinman lingered many days between life and death. At last he recovered, and in time was discharged from the hospital.

However, his first attempts to run the peddler's wagon again revealed the fact that the peddler's days on the road were over. He was no longer strong enough for the hard outdoor life.

Timothy Hinman and his sisters came forward when the Overseers of the Poor began to look into the peddler's affairs. These dutiful children wanted to be sure to obtain whatever might be their share of their father's belongings.

Timothy and his sisters obtained their full shares—nothing.

The Overseers of the Poor found that they could effect an arrangement by which the peddler's home, his horse and wagon, stock and good will could be sold for four thousand dollars.

This was done. With half the money Reuben Hinman was able to purchase his way into a home for old men. Here he will be maintained, without further expense, as long as he lives, and he will live in a degree of comfort amounting, with this simple-minded ex-peddler, to positive luxury.

The other two thousand dollars, at the suggestion of the Overseers of the Poor, was spent in buying an annuity from a life insurance company. This annuity provides ample spending money for Reuben Hinman whenever, in fine weather, he wishes to go forth from the home and enjoy himself in the world at large.

Timothy has been forced to go to work as a valet. The daughters tearfully support themselves as milliners. Reuben Hinman long ago spent the ten dollars received from Lawyer Stark.

The tramp who accepted work from Dr. Hewitt made good in every sense of the word. In fact he did so well that, in time, he took unto himself a wife and is now the head of a family, which lives in a little cottage built on Dr. Hewitt's estate. The name of "Jim Joggers" has given way to the real name of that former knight of the road. However, as the man is sensitive about his idle past, we prefer to remember him as "Joggers."

And now we come to the end of the "High School Boys Vacation Series."

It is to be hoped that these four little volumes have not dwelt so much upon fun as to make it appear that pleasure is all there is in the world that is worth while.

Dick Prescott and his friends were destined to discover that all the pleasure in the world that is worth anything at all comes only as the reward of continuous, hard and useful endeavor.

The further adventures that befell Dick Prescott and his chums while they were still Gridley High School boys will be found in the fourth volume of the "High School Boys Series," which is published under the title, "The High School Captain of the Team; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard."

In that volume, the last dealing with Dick Prescott's high school days, the value of sports and the worth of honor and faithful work will be set forth as strongly as lies within the power of the narrator of these events.

THE END